


Above All Things

by dancewithme19



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 10:20:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 51,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancewithme19/pseuds/dancewithme19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt Hummel goes to The Moulin Rouge that night for one reason and one reason only – he’s getting his play produced if it’s the last thing he does. It isn’t long before he finds himself tangled up in a world he never wanted any part of, in over his head for a man who’s not allowed to love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sparkling Diamonds

**Author's Note:**

> This is my Glee/Moulin Rouge fusion fic! I was inspired fairly equally by my deep love for Moulin Rouge, the Kurt/Blaine version of “Come What May,” and the Blaine/Sue interaction from Feud. I follow the plot of Moulin Rouge pretty closely, with one major deviation and many minor ones. Enjoy!
> 
> Music in this chapter: "Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend," "Material Girl/Teenage Dream," "Blackbird"

_There was a boy_ …

 

**Chapter 1: Sparkling Diamonds**

 

“Is there a reason that you neglected to inform me that the ‘theater’ we would be visiting this evening is actually a _strip club_?”

 

“I think the more appropriate term is ‘exotic entertainment facility,’ actually.”

 

Kurt stops short, but Rachel doesn’t break stride, eyes firmly fixed on the ornate front door. He folds his arms over his chest, settling in for what is likely to be a long and very annoying conversation, and waits for her to notice that he isn’t falling in line. She whips around, hair fanning out and catching the blue and red neon glow from the signage above.

 

“I don’t actually care what it’s _called_ , Rachel, I can’t believe you thought this could be anything other than a complete and total waste of my time!”

 

“Look, everything I told you is true.”

 

“Sure, if I’d written a show about _strippers_.”

 

“It’s an amazing performance space in a completely untapped neighborhood.”

 

“I’m starting to think your definition of ‘performance’ is much looser than mine.”

 

“Just give it a chance. You’ll see!”

 

“Have _you_ actually seen it?”

 

“Well, no, but – ”

 

“Rachel, you have to know how crazy this is.”

 

“Just listen, Kurt, please. I know someone on the inside.” Her voice has dropped to a whisper. Kurt rolls his eyes. “She says the owner is looking to change their, um, rather unsavory image. Once she finds the right piece and secures some financial backing, they’re going to close the place down and turn it into a theater. A real theater.”

 

“Oh, come on. Even if you’re right, this is hardly the place for us to make our debut. No one in the business would take us seriously.”

 

“No one is taking us seriously _now_. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’ve come to the end of our options, Kurt. And, personally, I’m tired of serving coffee to tourists in Times Square.”

 

He could make a comment about the fact that she’s been a barista for less than two months, how it’s the first paying job she’s ever _had_ , how these things take time and there’s nothing wrong with the life of a starving artist, but…well, she’s kind of right. There isn’t much more they can do beyond staging it at the Lima Community Playhouse, and that’s a little too off-Broadway for Kurt’s taste.

 

The bottom line is, he isn’t ready to give up on this. There are other things he could do with his life – he is a trained singer, after all, and the former protégé of one Isabelle Wright. The world could be at his feet, if he wanted it to be. But this is what he wants.

 

He just needs to find someone who will bring his words to life.

 

Rachel must be able to sense him faltering, because she grips his shoulder and gives him the doe eyes.

 

“This is your dream, Kurt. _Our_ dream. It can’t hurt to check it out, right?”

 

He sighs, hating that she has a point.

 

“Okay. But you are paying for my drinks. And the cab ride home.”

 

She squeals and pulls him into a jostling hug.

 

“Oh, you won’t regret this, you’ll see!”

 

Right. The place is called The Moulin Rouge. The sign has an actual, flashing, neon, rotating windmill. He’s pretty sure he already does.

 

They dig out their IDs (no need for fakes anymore, thank God) and show them to the bouncer. He waves them in, remaining impassive even in the face of Rachel’s blinding smile.

 

Kurt holds back another sigh. He’s pretty sure he’ll be doing that all evening.

 

The noise of the place hits him right away. There’s music, of course, and not the cheesy, techno kind that Kurt was expecting. It’s something poppy that Kurt can’t put his finger on right away. It’s blasted fairly loudly, but not loud enough to drown out the cheering and chattering of the crowd. It’s obvious that the place is filled to the brim, even before they round the corner and see it with their own eyes.

 

“Are you sure we have to do this?”

 

“Yes. Now hush, and let’s go find a table so we can enjoy the show!”

 

Right now, “the show” consists of a line of scantily clad women gyrating in unison to a song that was popular five years ago. Kurt’s pretty sure that the chances of him enjoying it are slim to none.

 

Even so, Kurt lets Rachel drag him to an empty table near the back and order him a cosmo from the overly-waxed waiter.

 

The production values, at least, Kurt can admire. The lighting is tasteful, striking the right balance between seductive and soft, the costumes are actually quite beautifully-made (even if not to his particular taste), and the stripper poles appear to be operated by hydraulic lift from beneath the stage. There’s a curtain, too, in a heavy, richly-hued red velvet that wouldn’t look out of place in any theater on Broadway. Kurt’s hopes start to perk up, just a bit.

 

The next number starts, boys and girls mixed this time. It features surprisingly interesting choreography, more burlesque than grotesque, but it’s still not enough to hold Kurt’s attention. He leans in close to Rachel’s ear, to be heard.

 

“How long are we planning to stay, exactly?”

 

Rachel won’t meet his eyes. She pretends to be riveted to the stage, but Kurt knows better.

 

“Rachel. What did you do?”

 

She looks at him, scandalized.

 

“Nothing!”

 

“Come on, Rachel, just say it.”

 

“Okay, fine. I was going to tell you soon, anyway.” She leans in, the gleam in her eye back and brighter than ever. “Santana told me that things are moving pretty quickly. Sue, the owner, she’s almost got enough investors to give the project the green light. We’ve got to get our hats in the ring now, or we’ll miss our chance.”

 

“What does that have to do with tonight?”

 

“I may have set up a meeting.”

 

“For a _Friday night_?”

 

“Well. Yes.”

 

“Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

 

“I was _going_ to tell you!”

 

“What, five minutes beforehand? I don’t even have a copy of the script.”

 

“It’s okay, don’t worry, I sent one ahead.”

 

“You need to tell me about these kinds of things, Rachel. We’re _partners_.”

 

“I know, okay? I’m sorry. I just knew you wouldn’t be very…taken with the idea.”

 

“Gee, I wonder why.”

 

“Come on, would you stop being so negative? This place is great! It’s charming, don’t you think? And aren’t the dancers talented? If you could stop being so judgmental for a few seconds and just imagine what this place would look like with some nice, cushy theater seats and a splash of paint, you’d see just how much potential it has. I found us an opportunity, Kurt, it wouldn’t kill you to be a little grateful.”

 

Her nose is turned slightly up in that haughty way that Kurt hates, but he has to admit she’s maybe a little right. The place is much less disgusting than he imagined when he saw the marquee. And he definitely wouldn’t have come at all if she’d told him about the plan before they left the apartment.

 

“Okay. Fine. What time is this meeting with what’s-her-name?”

 

“It’s Sue. Sue Sylvester. But we’re actually not meeting with her.”

 

“But you just said – ”

 

“We’re meeting with someone else. Santana told me, she said that Sue’s tastes are very…particular. She suggested that we get someone on our side that Sue will listen to.”

 

“What about Santana?”

 

“They’ve had something of a…falling out, apparently. She was recently demoted to the chorus line. She wouldn’t tell me why.”

 

Kurt blinks. The idea of a strip club chorus line is a little…unusual. He decides to let it go.

 

“Well then, who – ”

 

He’s drowned out, suddenly, by the roar of the crowd. The curtain is closed, the lights dimmed, and there’s a low, female voice coming through the speakers.

 

“I think it’s time for some real entertainment, wouldn’t you say, gentlemen? Without further ado, club Moulin Rouge presents…our sparkling diamonds.”

 

The cheers and catcalls from the audience are overwhelming. Kurt raises his eyebrows at Rachel, but she seems equally baffled. Just as Kurt has convinced himself that this can’t mean anything good, the curtain opens once more.

 

There must be 15 women up on that stage, all of them dressed in corsets and fishnet stockings, evoking the decadent yet understated sexiness of the 1940s pin-up girl. They are, all of them, dripping in what Kurt knows can’t actually be diamonds, catching the light and throwing out sparkles so bright Kurt thinks he might go momentarily blind.

 

The music starts, and it, too, is not what Kurt would have expected. A leggy blonde, gorgeous with loose curls and a brilliant red lip, steps forward and, to Kurt’s surprise, starts to sing.

 

_“A kiss on the hand may be quite continental…”_

 

Her voice isn’t amazing, but her moves certainly are. Kurt understands, without a doubt, why so many men in the crowd are visibly drooling over her, even if he isn’t one of them.

 

“Look!” says Rachel in the closest thing to a whisper she can manage above the noise. “That’s Santana, the one on the end?”

 

Kurt looks. She, like all of the girls, is beautiful, alluring, sexy. She also looks incredibly bored. Kurt can sympathize – it sucks being stuck in the background when you’re meant to shine.

 

“How do you know her, anyway?”

 

“We’ve run into each other on a few auditions. She’s not the nicest person, but I let her borrow my shoes once when her heel broke, so she owed me.”

 

The song ends with a flourish and a roar of applause, and the dancers blow kisses to the crowd before the curtain closes. Kurt applauds, too, because no matter the purpose or the setting, that was a fine performance that deserves to be recognized. The dancers filter out, after the noise has begun to die down, and disperse themselves throughout the audience, batting their eyes and draping themselves over laps, bending over to show off what Kurt is sure is impressive cleavage. Collecting tips, no doubt, or maybe reservations for lap dances. Kurt doesn’t really know how those things work. There is a mysterious doorway by the stage, lit neon red and watched over by a burly bodyguard, that Kurt suspects may lead to rooms meant for more…private dances.

 

He shudders, and turns his attention back to Rachel.

 

“So, wait, you never told me who we’re meeting.”

 

She bites her lip.

 

“Well, it won’t exactly be the both of us.”

 

“What are you – ?”

 

“I think it might be easier to convince him if you’re alone.”

 

“Wha – _him_?”

 

“Yes. Apparently, he’s Sue’s favorite – Santana was very bitter about that – but she said he’s the one we should talk to if we want to have any kind of chance at this.”

 

“Rachel, if you don’t tell me who it is, I swear – ”

 

The voice is back. The room hushes so quickly Kurt can hear ringing in his ears.

 

“You know, some of you ladies and gentlemen still seem a little lonely.” The voice is dry, almost mocking. The crowd laughs and catcalls and collectively leans forward, eyes glued to the stage. “But don’t you worry your inebriated little heads – if our lovely ladies don’t do it for you, our strapping young gentlemen most certainly will.”

 

A drumroll has started without Kurt’s noticing, a low rumble that builds, just slightly, as the announcer takes a dramatic pause. Despite himself, he can feel his own anticipation ratcheting up.

 

“Without further ado, the shining star of The Moulin Rouge. Our very own teenage dream.”

 

The curtain sweeps open. Rachel clutches onto Kurt’s arm.

 

“It’s _him_ ,” she hisses, nodding meaningfully at the stage.

 

Kurt doesn’t even flick his eyes in her direction.

 

There is a chorus of men onstage, dressed in tight black vests and black leather pants that leave very little to the imagination, but there is no doubt as to who, exactly, Rachel is referring to.

 

He’s in the middle, a bright spot in a sea of dark. His vest is made of a red material that molds to his body and seems to shimmer in the light. His head is down, like the rest, but his presence is like a magnet in the middle of the stage, drawing every eye to him without moving a muscle.

 

The entire room is holding its breath, a long moment of suspense that stretches tighter and tighter as the silence prolongs. Just as Kurt thinks it will snap, the man looks up.

 

Kurt has to bite his lip to keep from gasping aloud.

 

It’s just – he’s got these _eyes_ , these big, wide eyes that seem to sparkle brighter than any fake diamond in the world, picked out with dark eyeliner and lashes so gorgeous that Kurt suspects they may be store-bought. His face is a study in contrasts – the softness of his mouth played up against the strong line of his jaw, the lushly styled curl of his hair against the sharp jut of his cheekbones. Kurt can see, now, that he has a thick band of leather circling his throat, bobbing and stretching as he swallows.

 

He looks over the crowd. His lips twist slightly up. He opens his mouth and starts to sing.

 

It’s his voice, alone, and Kurt would laugh at the song choice if he weren’t so entirely transfixed.

 

_“Some boys kiss me, some boys hug me,_

_I think they’re okay…”_

Slow, lovely, maybe a little ironic. His voice cuts Kurt to the bone.

_“If they don’t give me proper credit,_

_I just walk away…”_

 

There’s a lingering pause, here, before the music kicks in and the men behind him come to life.

 

They dance, they sing, they unbutton their vests, but Kurt couldn’t care less, and he suspects he isn’t alone. He almost feels sorry for them, performing like that when they could easily be invisible.

 

The man, the lead – and God, but Kurt needs to know his name, Kurt is _meeting_ with him tonight – he moves with the kind of grace that can only be inborn and a sexy self-awareness that can only be learned. He smiles and winks and flirts with every eye he meets, and he does it with such sincerity that Kurt starts to melt in spite of himself.

 

There’s just…there’s this light that he seems to pull up from inside when he sings, and this wicked twist to his mouth when he calls himself a “material girl,” and then the music shifts, and suddenly it’s –

 

_“I’ma get your heart racing in my skintight jeans,_

_Be your teenage dream tonight._

_Let you put your hands on me in my skintight jeans,_

_Be your teenage dream tonight – ”_

He pauses, looks out over the crowd, every inch of him an open invitation as the tension of the silence pulls tight.

_“ – ‘Cause we are living in a material world,_

_And I am a material girl…”_

 

The juxtaposition is clever, just sweet enough and bitter enough that Kurt is genuinely impressed.

 

This man invites the attention, he plays and he teases, and he builds the fantasy with his warm, melting-honey eyes, but the warning there is clear: _you can buy me, but you can’t have me_.

 

The man’s breathing is coming harder by the time the music ends, pushing the muscles of his chest appealingly against the confines of his vest, emphasizing the narrow dip of his waist. The barest trace of sweat across his forehead glitters under the stage lights.

 

The curtain closes. There’s a moment of silence, and then the crowd bursts into uproarious applause. Kurt is nearly too dazed to join in.

 

“He was good, wasn’t he?”

 

Rachel is bright-eyed and watching him expectantly.

 

“Oh. Yes. He’s very, um. Flexible.”

 

Kurt is very happy that his voice has managed to remain steady, even if he can’t get out more than two words at a time.

 

“He’s expecting you in 15 minutes. You just need to tell the bouncer that Santana sent you, and he’ll let you back.”

 

“What – back _there_?”

 

Rachel rolls her eyes.

 

“It’s not _contaminated_ , Kurt. You’re just going to sing for the guy, show him why we’re the best fit for their foray into musical theater.”

 

“You want me to _sing_ for him?”

 

“Obviously. How else are you going to sell him the script?”

 

“I don’t know, plot synopsis?”

 

“Kurt, I’m ashamed of you. Since when are you not ready to sing at a moment’s notice?”

 

Kurt doesn’t take the time to point out that they’re not actually living in a musical and that most people don’t find it necessary to break out into song in the midst of their daily lives, but only because he is currently freaking out. This is so far out of his comfort zone he might as well be in Siberia.

 

“How do I know when he’s…ready for me?”

 

“Santana said she’d come find us.”

 

Kurt nods, unable to do much else.

 

Some of the women from earlier are back on stage, but it’s nothing special, and no one is paying very close attention. Kurt takes the opportunity to people watch instead.

 

Kurt has always been under the impression that married scumbags and douchey frat boys make up the bulk of customers at _establishments_ such as this one, but he has to admit that this crowd seems a lot more diverse. There are women sprinkled throughout, cougars on their lonesome and a rowdy group that is most definitely a bachelorette party. There are younger men, too, men in suit jackets whose body language screams money and arrogance, surveying the room like hawks on the hunt.

 

A low, murmuring buzz has settled over the crowd, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter. The performers are still interspersed amongst them, working their assets for all they’re worth, stroking hands over cheeks, perching prettily on knees, charming their way through a seduction that’s old as time.

 

The place is undeniably classy, Kurt must admit, as much as that word can apply to a strip club. Sue Sylvester must be a smart lady, and she must be making bank. He’s still skeeved out by the fact that she makes that money by selling off the people in her employ to be ogled and treated like objects, but that doesn’t prevent him from admiring the skill it takes to make a place like this remotely palatable. The distinct lack of g-strings and the quality of the talent certainly help.

 

Kurt’s mind flickers to those amber eyes, lit bright by the spotlight.

 

His heart skips a beat. His blood spikes. God, he’s in trouble.

 

He’s woken from his reverie by the sound of a throat clearing. He looks up to see one of the chorus girls – Santana, he remembers – looking at them with an almost lazy sort of impatience.

 

“Glad you could make it,” she says, slow and sardonic.

 

Rachel beams.

 

“Thank you for inviting us. Your performance was very good.”

 

Santana rolls her eyes and turns to Kurt, arms folded beneath her breasts.

 

“Boy Wonder is ready for you.”

 

Kurt takes a deep breath, hoping to calm the racing of his heart. It doesn’t exactly work.

 

“Okay. Do I just – ”

 

“Tell Puck you’re here to see Blaine and he’ll let you in.” She gestures back to that red-lit door without bothering to look.

 

 _Blaine_.

 

“Puck?”

 

She rolls her eyes again, harder, this time, if that’s even possible.

 

“God, do I have to hold your hand?”

 

She doesn’t wait for a reply, just grabs Kurt by the wrist and drags him out of his seat.

 

“I’ll wait here!” trills Rachel, as if she has a choice in the matter.

 

Santana navigates through the crowd with ease, only letting go of him when they reach the doorway. Not bothering to spare him a glance, she smirks at the guard and leans in to whisper in his ear. The guard – Puck, probably – breaks into a dopey smile that couldn’t be more different from the stoicism he’s been wearing all evening. Santana pulls back, and he schools his expression once more. He glances at Kurt.

 

“Well? Go ahead.”

 

“Go get ‘em, tiger,” puts in Santana.

 

“Where do I – ?”

 

“You’ll figure it out.”

 

Santana snickers, but Kurt chooses to take the high road and throws her a weak smile.

 

“Thanks,” he says.

 

He takes one last fortifying breath and walks through the doorway.

 

There’s a hallway just beyond, dimly lit with wall sconces and strips of lighting on the floor. The walls are deep red and unadorned. There’s a sharp right turn, and then a long stretch dotted every so often with plain white doors. Some of them have placards with names written in curling, golden script. There’s one that reads _Sam_ , one for _Brittany_ , then _Santana_ , and, finally… _Blaine_.

 

It’s the last door in the hallway. Kurt lifts his hand and knocks before he can lose his nerve.

 

“Come in,” he hears, faint over the muffled noise from the club and the thick wood of the door.

 

He closes his eyes, turns the knob, and doesn’t look back.

 

The room is not exactly what he expected. It’s richly, opulently decorated, with brocade upholstery and fat, tasseled pillows arranged around a lacquered-dark coffee table, laid out with platters of hors d’oeuvres and a bottle of champagne set to chill.

 

Most surprising, however, is the presence of a bed.

 

It’s huge and practically centered in the room, draped with a midnight-blue satin duvet and an inviting array of pillows. Kurt has a suddenly terrible feeling about this.

 

It doesn’t go away when he finally lets himself look at Blaine.

 

He’s standing by the bed, effortlessly at ease in his body, a warm, sly smile bringing out the glint in his eyes. He’s changed since his performance, now decked out in black from head to toe. It’s artful, how beautifully the outfit highlights his body. The vest is so tight the buttons strain every time he breathes. It has small corset ties that accentuate the ratio of his waist to his shoulders. His thighs strain at the seams of his pants, stretching the leather over sculpted muscle and leaving no doubt that he is extremely…gifted in other areas that Kurt won’t let himself linger over for too long. He’s here for a business meeting, for Christ’s sake.

 

Blaine’s choker is gone, leaving the line of his throat bare to the collarbone. There’s something elegant about the curves and hollows there, and something almost fragile.

 

“Why don’t you come in and make yourself more comfortable?”

 

There’s a light tease in his voice, but his eyes are kind.

 

“Oh, um, alright.”

 

Kurt moves to one of the couches and sits, stiff and straight-backed. Blaine turns to follow him with his gaze.

 

“Would you like some champagne?”

 

Blaine starts to reach for the bottle, but the thought of navigating this situation with champagne bubbling through his veins is much less than appealing.

 

“No. Thank you, but I think I’d rather just get to it.”

 

Blaine’s eyebrows shoot up, just a fraction, and a strangely surprised expression flickers over his face. It’s gone as soon as it came.

 

“Then let’s get to it.”

 

He smiles broadly and starts to move closer. Kurt is reminded of a lioness stalking her prey. He stands up abruptly and puts a little distance between them.

 

“I thought I’d start,” he says, voice squeakier than he’d like. He’d really hoped to maintain his cool, not let himself get intimidated, but it looks like that ship has sailed. “I’ll give you a taste of what I do, and you can tell me if you think it’ll be a good fit.”

 

Blaine has stopped short, mouth gaping slightly open, and Kurt tries not to dwell on just how attractive that is. Blaine smiles again.

 

“I’m sure it will be.”

 

He winks, and it should be cheesy, but it’s not. He settles himself on the couch, lounging on his side and propping up his head in one hand. It’s a seductive pose, one that draws attention to the bulge of his bicep and the curve of his hip. Kurt tears his gaze away.

 

What the hell is going on here anyway? Is this guy just _like_ this, like, all the time, or is he trying to throw Kurt off his game? Either way, Kurt can’t look at him right now or he won’t be able to get out a note.

 

“Okay, um. Here it goes,” he says, and he opens his mouth to sing before he can second-guess himself any longer.

 

The song isn’t his best work, but it’s the only one that comes to his lips in this moment. He’s written it and re-written it so many times it’s been pounded into his muscle memory, this big, romantic number that falls flat no matter how many key changes he builds in. It would figure, the one song he wants to forget is the only one he can remember.

 

Oh, well. He’ll just have to make do – this is his moment and he’s going to work it to the best of his ability. It’s been a long time since he sang for an audience of any size (besides Rachel, who doesn’t count), but Kurt Hummel still knows how to sell a performance.

 

He’s about halfway through the second verse when he chances a glance back at Blaine. What he sees is…weird, to say the least.

 

Blaine has got his eyes closed and his mouth open, as if in ecstasy, and he’s running a hand up and down his chest, sensual and slow.

 

Kurt stops, confused and kind of horrified. _What_?

 

Blaine’s eyes shoot open.

 

“No, no, no, God, don’t stop – your voice is such a turn-on. I heard you were talented, but I never knew a voice could make me _so hot_. Come on, baby, _sing for me_.”

 

Baffled, Kurt picks up where he left off, trying to make himself heard as best he can over Blaine’s low moans and the thump of him thrashing his head back against the cushion.

 

 _Kill me now_.

 

This isn’t working. He has no idea what the hell is going on, except that this guy is completely and totally _crazy_ and holds Kurt’s fate in the palm of his hand. Whatever this is, he isn’t being taken seriously.

 

He stops. He waits for Blaine to notice. It takes longer than he would like.

 

His eyes dart around the room, desperate for some sort of inspiration to strike, because this is important and Blaine needs to _listen_ or else Kurt’s embarrassed himself and used up his last chance for nothing. Kurt will _make_ him listen. He just needs to figure out how.

 

He sees something glint golden just on the periphery of his vision, and, caught, he turns to look. It’s a cage, large and ornate, meant to hold a menagerie of exotic birds. It’s empty.

 

It’s certainly a strange decorating choice, but there is something rather…evocative about it. Lonely or triumphant, Kurt isn’t sure, because the birds have flown to freedom, but they’ve left their home behind. He feels a sharp pang of recognition in his chest.

 

He has an idea.

 

He doesn’t take the time to consider it, just goes with his gut and the song suddenly in his throat.

 

_“Blackbird singing in the dead of night…”_

 

It isn’t his, but right now, he doesn’t care. It’s what he has.

 

_“…Take these broken wings and learn to fly._

_All your life,_

_You were only waiting for this moment to arise…”_

 

He’s always had a soft spot for this song – it’s always given him hope, from the painful months following his mother’s death to those interminable weeks his junior year of high school when he was terrorized every day and no one seemed to notice. It’s a song he feels in the tenderest parts of his heart.

 

He just needs Blaine to feel it, too.

 

When he turns to look, Blaine has stopped his antics. He’s sitting up, stock still, looking at Kurt with parted lips and a shrewd, searching gaze that looks realer than anything Kurt’s seen on his face tonight. His entire face softens as Kurt sings, shifting into something open and almost vulnerable.

 

There’s a moment of silence after Kurt finishes. They look at each other in something like wonder.

 

Blaine clears his throat.

 

“That was…really beautiful. Your voice is… It’s rare, to find a producer with that kind of talent. We’re lucky to have you.”

 

Kurt smiles, an automatic reaction to such earnest praise. Then Blaine’s words sink in.

 

“Wait, producer?”

 

Blaine freezes. His smile drops.

 

“Please tell me you’re a producer.”

 

“No, I’m a writer – Santana told me she’d arranged this meeting with you to discuss – ”

 

Blaine shoots up, running a hand through his hair, and starts to pace.

 

“Oh, God, I’m going to _kill_ her. You’re Kurt Hummel, aren’t you? You wrote that script.”

 

“Yes, I did. I – ”

 

“You can’t be here right now.”

 

“What are you – ?”

 

“You have to leave, you have no idea what could happen if you get caught, you _can’t be here_.”

 

Blaine has a hand gripped around his elbow now and is forcibly steering him toward the door.

 

Suddenly, there’s a resounding knock. Blaine breathes sharply in. He swallows. He nods once, to himself, and turns to Kurt.

 

“You have to hide.”

 

Kurt has no idea what’s on the other side of that door, but Blaine’s eyes are wide with panic and begging Kurt to take this seriously. Kurt nods.

 

“Thank you,” breathes Blaine, and then Kurt is diving for the space beneath the bed. The duvet hangs down far enough that he should be shielded from view.

 

“Come in,” calls Blaine, and the shift in his voice is actually quite incredible.

 

Kurt can’t see anything from his current vantage point, but he can hear the click of the door and the heavy rhythm of footsteps on the carpet.

 

“At last, we meet in person,” says a voice. It’s a man, slick and oily. Kurt can practically hear him smirking.

 

“Sebastian. I’ve heard so much about you.”

 

“All of it good, I hope?”

 

“Of course. I’ve been looking forward to this meeting all night.”

 

“Meeting, hm? Is that what we’re calling it?”

 

Oh, God, this guy’s got sleaze literally dripping off of him. It’s quiet for a moment, and Kurt can’t help himself. He maneuvers the duvet so that there’s a slit for him to look through. He can’t see much, but what he does see is more than enough. Sebastian is much like Kurt imagined – young, tall, and fairly good-looking in a rodent sort of a way, wearing an Armani suit and a hairstyle best suited for teeny-bopper television. He’s trailing a hand down the line of Blaine’s body, tracing the musculature of his torso, the jut of his hip bone, and back, beyond Kurt’s line of vision, to the firm curve of his ass.

 

Blaine doesn’t object, instead seems to relish Sebastian’s touch, but Kurt’s seen just how good an actor he really is.

 

“Would you like some champagne?” murmurs Blaine.

 

“No. I think I’m thirsty for something else.”

 

He’s smirking, and sliding his hand over Blaine’s jaw, sinking his fingers into the loose curl of his hair. He pulls Blaine closer, close enough that their bodies touch, close enough that Kurt realizes for the first time how _small_ Blaine actually is. He tips his head up to look Sebastian in the eye, eyelashes sweeping demurely down, lips curved into a smile.

 

“I believe Sue informed you that I require payment first?”

 

Sebastian’s eyes dip down to Blaine’s lips, then back up to his eyes.

 

“It’s taken care of, don’t you worry. And I’d pay a hell of a lot more than that if it means I get to fuck that glorious ass of yours tonight.”

 

Holy _shit_. Kurt feels like an idiot. A complete and total fumbling _idiot_. There is a _bed_ in the middle of the room. How did he not get that this is a _brothel_?

 

Sheer, blind hope, probably. And the fact that he’s never actually been to a brothel. Or a sex club, or whatever the right name for this is.

 

Oh, God, that means Blaine is a hooker. And he thought that Kurt… Oh, God.

 

“What do you say we move this to the bed?”

 

Right. Of course. The bed. The bed that Kurt is currently hiding under, of course. _Fuck_.

 

Blaine must have the same realization in this moment, because he glances briefly in Kurt’s direction then trails a hand up into Sebastian’s hair.

 

“Are you sure you don’t want to bend me over the couch?” he purrs.

 

“No. I want to look at you.” He rubs his thumb roughly over Blaine’s cheekbone. He places a hand on Blaine’s chest and pushes gently back, toward the bed.

 

“Wait,” says Blaine, a slight edge of panic in his voice that has Sebastian narrowing his eyes. “Kiss me, first.”

 

Sebastian smiles, slow and smirky, and complies. It’s a gross, claiming sort of kiss with lots of tongue, but Kurt is saved from his own sick fascination by Blaine’s free hand, which is waving at him frantically in a way that seems to indicate that he should vacate the bed area as soon as he can. Kurt scoots carefully out the other side and has almost made it to the door when Sebastian breaks the kiss.

 

Kurt freezes. Blaine hurriedly turns their bodies so that he’s facing Kurt and Sebastian is facing away. Kurt reaches out a hand, almost touches the knob, in fact, but something stops him.

 

Something doesn’t seem right about leaving Blaine with this man who’s paid for the right to treat Blaine’s body like an object that he owns. So, he doesn’t.

 

Blaine shoots him an incredulous, panicked look while Sebastian is busy sucking at his neck. Kurt shakes his head. Blaine waves his hand. Kurt moves instead to hide behind the couch, Blaine holding back an exasperated sigh and hauling Sebastian’s body around so that Kurt doesn’t get caught.

 

“Mm. I like it when you get rough. You’re a real tiger in the sack, aren’t you?”

 

Blaine bites his lip, runs his hand almost shyly up Sebastian’s arm.

 

“I guess you’ll find out, won’t you?”

 

It’s like a spark to a match – Sebastian surges in and attacks the hollows at the base of Blaine’s throat, sucking like he’s trying to draw blood out through his pores.

 

“Careful,” gasps Blaine. “Sue doesn’t like us to have marks.”

“Oh, yeah? And why is that?”

 

“Customers tend to get jealous.”

 

Sebastian jerks back at that.

 

“I suppose they would, wouldn’t they?”

 

He traces thoughtfully at what Kurt is sure are purpling bruises on Blaine’s skin.

 

“Do you have anyone else tonight?”

 

“Well, the night is still young.”

 

Sebastian’s eyes go sharp at that.

 

“How much would it cost for me to ensure that you don’t?”

 

“I don’t know, you’d have to take it up with Sue.”

 

“Maybe I’d better go do that. Make sure our time together isn’t…interrupted.”

 

Blaine smiles. If Kurt hadn’t seen the real deal with his own eyes, he’d swear this was it.

 

“Mm. Maybe you’d better.”

 

“Don’t get too lonely without me.”

 

Blaine leans up to kiss him, sweetly, then murmurs into his ear, “Hurry back.”

 

Sebastian backs his way to the door and exits without another word.

 

Blaine slumps in relief. Kurt stands up, cautiously, and Blaine whips around to face him, face stark with fear and anger.

 

“You! You need to get out _right now_. Under no circumstances can you be anywhere near this room when he comes back. Do you have _any idea_ what he would do to you if he thought we were – ?”

 

“Okay, alright. You’re right, I’ll leave if you want me to. I just – Blaine, is this really worth it?”

 

Blaine rolls his eyes.

 

“Oh, God, this is really not the right time and definitely not the right place for a morality lecture.”

 

“No, I just mean – that guy’s a sleazeball. Do you really want him…touching you?”

 

Blaine softens, but the look in his eyes is still steely.

 

“Look, your concern is sweet, but this is really none of your business.”

 

“It will be if you choose my script.”

 

Blaine raises his eyebrows, surprised.

 

“You still want to be a part of this project? Even after all that?”

 

“More than ever.”

 

“Okay. Look. We can talk about this some other time, alright? Just…contact Sue and we’ll set up a meeting – you know, a real meeting – and we’ll figure it all out. Okay? But right now you need to _get out of here_.”

 

Kurt nods quickly.

 

“Okay. Great. That’s – we’ll be in touch. Thank you.”

 

Blaine smiles tightly and waves a goodbye that looks more like shooing away.

 

Kurt hastens to comply.

 

He’s opened the door and stepped out into the hallway before he realizes that he really, really shouldn’t have. Because there’s Sebastian, striding purposefully toward him, and he’s been seen. He freezes.

 

Oh, God.

 

“You!”

 

Sebastian clenches his jaw and quickens his step to a jog. There’s nowhere for Kurt to go but back inside Blaine’s room, and that’s no better a choice than this dead-end of a hallway. Before he can blink, much less make a decision, Sebastian is on him. He shoves Kurt easily into the wall, his head snapping back with a thunk that leaves him dazed.

 

Blaine, alerted by the noise, no doubt, is at his side in a second.

 

“ _Sebastian_! What are you doing?”

 

Sebastian’s grip tightens as he turns to look at Blaine, a warning to Kurt to stay where he is.

 

“Are you playing me, you whore?” he growls. “Did you get me out of the room so you could suck some other guy’s dick while I was gone?”

 

“Of course not! Let him go, Sebastian, he didn’t do anything – I _promise_. Tonight, I’m yours. Okay?”

 

“Well, then what’s he doing here, Blaine?”

 

“Let him go and I’ll tell you.”

 

They hold eye contact for a few moments, strength matching strength and neither backing down. Kurt knows better than to intercede. Finally, Sebastian lets go of his hold on Kurt’s sweater. Blaine softens immediately.

 

“Thank you. Sebastian, this is Kurt. He wrote the show you’ve so generously agreed to finance. He heard from Sue that you’d shown interest, and he came down to celebrate. Puck saw you leave and told him I was free. Okay? So you can see this is all just a misunderstanding.”

 

“Hm. Well, I haven’t signed the papers yet, Blaine.”

 

“I know. But you’re going to, aren’t you?”

 

Blaine chances a teasing smile, here, and looks up at Sebastian through his lashes. Sebastian takes the bait and grins back.

 

“Well, that depends.”

 

“On what?”

 

“I’ve got to know what I’d be funneling my money into, don’t I?”

 

Blaine cuts a glance over at Kurt, who hasn’t moved a muscle.

 

“I have an idea. Why don’t the three of us go back in, and Kurt and I can tell you all about it. Maybe even get your input? Your talent is practically legendary.”

 

Kurt has to fight, hard, not to roll his eyes, but he manages.

 

Sebastian smirks and runs a hand over Blaine’s chest, fingertips sneaking beneath the material of his vest.

 

“Alright. Fine. The night is young. There will still be time, after, to acquaint you with my other talents.”

 

Blaine ducks his head then looks up, biting his lip and seeming to fight a grin.

 

“Sounds perfect.”

 

Sebastian holds the door open for Blaine and runs his eyes up and down Blaine’s body as he enters, lingering over the stretch of leather over his ass. Sebastian follows close behind, not bothering to spare a glance for Kurt. Kurt sighs, feels the back of his head for a lump that he doesn’t find, and follows them in. God, Rachel must be _freaking out_ by now, he’s been gone so long. Kurt himself isn’t far behind. And he almost got out, too…

 

Sebastian settles himself on the couch and helps himself to a glass of champagne. Blaine sits beside him. Kurt takes the armchair, seating himself delicately on the edge of the cushion in case a hasty exit becomes necessary.

 

“So,” says Sebastian, shooting Kurt a shark-eyed smile. “The script?”

 

“It’s amazing, Sebastian, you’ll love it,” assures Blaine.

 

“But what is it about, exactly?”

 

Now this, this is something Kurt is comfortable with. Finally.

 

“It’s about love.”

 

They both turn to him, Blaine startled and Sebastian faintly disgusted.

 

“Love?”

 

“Yes. I – all great stories are about love, aren’t they?”

 

The sneer is still very prominent on Sebastian’s face, but before he can open his mouth to reply, Blaine steps in.

 

“It’s a modern take on 19th century exoticism.”

 

Kurt looks at him, eyebrows raised in surprise. Not even Rachel got that without being explicitly told.

 

“It’s set in India,” Kurt adds. “There’s a boy – ”

 

“A servant boy.”

 

“ – a _slave_ boy, actually. A courtesan. To the maharani.”

 

Blaine shoots him a quizzical look, but he goes with the change nonetheless.

 

“He falls in love with a penniless sitar player, who wins him over with her incredible talent.”

 

“But the maharani is a jealous woman, and won’t let the poor boy go.”

 

“They conduct their love affair in secret – ”

 

“Until a close confidante lets it slip. The maharani sentences the sitar player to death, but she is made to see the error of her ways, and the lovers prevail.”

 

Sebastian doesn’t look entirely convinced.

 

“Sounds boring.”

 

“Okay, so the plot isn’t the most original.” Blaine shoots Kurt an apologetic look, and Kurt tries not to be offended. “But it isn’t just about that. This show is a – a feast for the senses. I mean, can’t you just imagine it? Vibrant colors, decadent fabrics, choreography that defies the laws of physiology and, probably, physics…”

 

“Like Bollywood on crack,” puts in Kurt. Blaine snorts, then schools his expression into the doe-eyed submission that seems to work so well with Sebastian.

 

“People will eat it up.”

 

Sebastian looks at Blaine a moment, seems to soften.

 

“I’m sure they will, as long as you’re the star. That is the whole reason I agreed to talk with Sue about this ridiculous project in the first place.”

 

Blaine ducks his head and glances at Kurt out of the corner of his eye, gauging his reaction, no doubt.

 

He has no reason to worry. Kurt hasn’t been envisioning anything else since the moment he saw Blaine on that stage tonight. No one else could play this role, now.

 

“Of course,” he says. “Blaine has the part as long as he wants it.”

 

Blaine smiles at him, a real, grateful smile, before turning his attention back to Sebastian. It goes flirty in an instant.

 

“So. Does that mean you’ll sign the papers?”

 

“Maybe. We’ll see how I feel in the morning.” Sebastian smirks – it’s like his default expression, God – and places a deliberate hand high on Blaine’s thigh.

 

“I think I told you I take payment up front.”

 

Sebastian frowns.

 

“And I told you, I already paid. For the whole night, I might add.”

 

“Well, you can have your money back, as long as you sign those papers.”

 

“Raising your price a bit, aren’t you?”

 

“No, more like…raising the stakes.” He slants his eyes at Sebastian in a way that toes the line between coy and shy. “I was just thinking. I don’t know if one night is going to be enough. For either of us.”

 

Sebastian inches his hand up Blaine’s thigh.

 

“What are you saying, exactly?”

 

Blaine leans in, close enough that his lips are brushing Sebastian’s ear when he speaks.

 

“You should talk to Sue about an exclusivity contract.”

 

Sebastian breathes sharply in, then presses a long, sucking kiss to the side of Blaine’s neck. Kurt is pretty sure they’ve forgotten he’s there. Which is fine, because he’s pretty lost.

 

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” whispers Sebastian against his skin. “In the morning.”

 

“That’s not how it – _oh_ – how it works.”

 

“Tomorrow evening, then.”

 

“I’m not some low-rent streetwalker you picked up, Sebastian – I won’t allow you to string me along. We play by my rules or we don’t play at all.”

 

Sebastian stares at him, breathing harsh and fast, and Kurt thinks for a moment that this is the moment he snaps. But he doesn’t. He just looks at Blaine, for all the world like he’s nothing Sebastian has ever seen. Kurt understands the feeling.

 

“Believe me, I know you’re not cheap,” says Sebastian, quiet. He leans in, kisses Blaine almost tenderly, and trails his lips over the angle of Blaine’s jaw to the hollow beneath.

 

Blaine gasps at something Sebastian does with his tongue and slides his fingers into Sebastian’s hair. His voice comes out breathy and intimate.

 

“Please – I – I don’t want to be with anyone else, not if I don’t have to be. If we really want me to be yours, and yours alone, we have to have a contract. _Sebastian_.”

 

This last is more like a moan than a word, and Kurt has never wanted to leave a room more than he wants to leave this one. It’s like watching a car crash – he can’t quite look away.

 

Sebastian pulls back.

 

“Okay, _fuck_.” he gasps, and presses a last, dirty kiss to Blaine’s mouth. “I’ll sign the papers, and I’ll have Sue draw up a contract, and you’ll be mine, right? _No one_ can have you but me.”

 

His voice is rough, even desperate, but Kurt catches the glance Sebastian sneaks at him out of the corner of his eye. Kurt can’t tell if it was intentional or not.

 

“No. No one. But hurry, please?”

 

He nods, caresses Blaine’s cheek, and hauls himself to his feet. He strides out the door without another word.

 

Blaine collapses back against the couch cushions, relief warring with fatigue all over his body. He tips his head back and closes his eyes.

 

“I’m sorry you had to see that.”

 

Kurt tries to respond, but nothing comes out. He clears his throat.

 

“No, it’s fine. I just – I’m sorry you had to _do_ that.”

 

Blaine looks at him and smiles, thinly.

 

“It’s for the best. Sue will know exactly how to work him over. We’re getting this project financed if it’s the last thing we do. Welcome aboard, by the way.”

 

“Doesn’t Sue have to approve before we make it official?”

 

Blaine laughs shortly.

 

“She doesn’t care. She’s leaving the choice up to me. It was Sebastian we had to convince. His ego couldn’t handle it if he didn’t think he was involved in the creative process.”

 

“Oh, God, does that mean he’s going to show up to rehearsals?”

 

“Probably.”

 

“Kill me now.”

 

“I’d rather not. We kind of need you and your awesome talent.”

 

Kurt laughs.

 

“I don’t know, you were doing pretty well on your own.”

 

“No, really.” Blaine’s eyes are doing that thing where they’re so sincere they take Kurt’s breath literally away. “Your script is amazing. It was my choice before I ever met you.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Of course. Interesting re-writes, though, I have to say.”

 

“I was inspired in the moment.”

 

Blaine looks at him for a moment, searching, then breaks into a grin.

 

“Well, I can tell already that this is going to be fun.”

 

Kurt can’t help but smile back.

 

“I’m really glad my friend Rachel dragged me here tonight.”

 

“Me too.”

 

“Speaking of, she’s kind of been waiting for me.”

 

“Oh! Well, then, you should go. Just – we’ll see each other soon, alright?”

 

He touches Kurt’s shoulder in a friendly gesture of camaraderie. Kurt nods, not trusting his voice in that moment. His heart has broken out in flutters over the warmth of Blaine’s palm.

 

“Good night, Blaine.”

 

Blaine’s smile is like sparks shooting up from the pit of Kurt’s stomach.

 

“Good night.”

 

He was right. He’s in so much trouble.


	2. We Could Be Heroes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music in this chapter: "Don’t Rain on My Parade," "Heroes," "Diamonds," "Bad Romance," "Just Can’t Get Enough"

**Chapter 2: We Could Be Heroes**

 

Things happen pretty quickly after that. Kurt and Rachel are up until all hours of the night going over everything again and again – Rachel is equal parts scandalized and intrigued at the discovery that The Moulin Rouge is not just a burlesque-inspired strip club after all, but she doesn’t let it deter her from celebrating their victory with the least-polished version of “Don’t Rain on My Parade” she’s allowed herself since the Audition-That-Must-Not-Be-Named. She takes Kurt’s hands and swings him around, and she grins so hard she get barely get the words out. Kurt is right there laughing with her, giddy and still dazed.

 

They get a call from Sue Sylvester the very next afternoon and hasten to the club to sign their contracts and make it official.

 

It’s strange to see The Moulin Rouge in the daylight, like a night-blooming flower that shrivels in the sun. It looks barren with the house lights up and the crush of people long gone. All Kurt sees now, though, is potential.

 

Upon arrival, they’re sent to Sue’s office in the back of the club, and it, like everything about this place, is not what Kurt expected. There’s a display case behind her desk filled with what appear to be cheerleading trophies, for one. There are costume sketches strewn all over her desk, and a dress form in the corner, outfitted in a half-finished corset. Kurt looks closer and realizes that, yes, indeed, the corset is made out of the remains of a red tracksuit.

 

Weird.

 

Upon meeting the woman herself, however, it kind of starts to make sense. She’s tall, probably the tallest woman Kurt’s ever met in real life, taller even than him. She’s got blonde, short-cropped hair and is wearing a buttoned-up suit jacket over blue track pants and white tennis shoes.

 

“Take a seat,” she says brusquely.

 

They do. She surveys them for a moment with narrowed eyes. Kurt fights the urge to squirm uneasily in his chair. Rachel doesn’t quite manage it.

 

“So, you’re the famous Kurt Hummel, obviously. My little Warbler speaks highly of you.” It takes Kurt a moment to understand that she’s talking about Blaine. By the time he does, it’s too late to respond, or do anything more than curse his skin for showing his blushes so easily. “Who’s your friend from the Shire?”

 

Rachel’s jaw drops indignantly.

 

“This is Rachel Berry,” says Kurt, quickly. “I told you about her on the phone, remember? She’s the star of the show.”

 

“No.”

 

“ _No_?” Rachel leaps to her feet. “I’ll have you know that those songs were _written_ for my voice.”

 

Kurt, unlike Rachel, manages to maintain his professionalism.

 

“I thought I made it clear that we were a package deal.”

 

“And I thought I made it clear that I was the director. _I_ make casting decisions. I’m not going to just give her the part when I haven’t even heard her sing. Frankly, considering her speaking voice, I’m not sure that I want to. It’s a miracle she isn’t followed everywhere she goes by a fleet of yapping dogs.”

 

“With all due respect, Ms. Sylvester, the deal is off if you don’t sign Rachel, too. We’re a team.”

 

It almost physically pains him to say it, but the look of gratitude that Rachel throws him is worth it.

 

Sue glares at him, but he refuses to be intimidated. He raises his eyebrows, hoping against hope that his nerves aren’t showing through.

 

“Alright. Fine. But I reserve the right to demote her to the chorus if she isn’t up to par. I’ve got an entire stable of talented girls at my beck and call who would literally kill for the opportunity to replace her.”

 

Rachel lifts her chin haughtily. It would work better if everyone in the room weren’t at least six inches taller than her.

 

“Don’t worry. That will _not_ be necessary.”

 

“I seriously doubt that,” mutters Sue. “Rehearsals start next week. You have until Wednesday to impress me.”

 

She shoves some papers at them and proceeds to rattle off the details of their contracts with faux-casual boredom as Kurt and Rachel look them over. They seem fairly standard but for the underlined, bolded, italicized requirement for **_COMPLETE AND UTTER CONFIDENTIALITY_**.

 

“What happens at The Moulin Rouge stays at The Moulin Rouge,” she says, so completely and deadly serious that Kurt doesn’t even think to laugh.

 

And then they’re signing on the line, and just like that, less than 15 minutes after they set foot in The Moulin Rouge for only the second time, they have a deal.

 

 _With the devil_ , adds the cynical part of Kurt’s brain, but he’s far too happy right now to listen to it.

 

His show is getting _produced_. He’s getting _paid_ for a script he’s really proud of, and people who aren’t his friends and family are going to come see it. He can’t _wait_ to call his dad – although he might leave out the whole ex-brothel side of things. Just so he doesn’t worry.

 

There are people trickling out onto the stage when Kurt and Rachel re-emerge to the front of the club. They’re dressed casually in sweats and comfortable shoes, chatting and settling into warm-ups like Kurt himself has done hundreds of times. This could be the auditorium at McKinley High, but for that doorway just to the right of the stage. It’s dark, now, in the off-hours, but Kurt can’t forget what it leads to.

 

“Ooh, I wonder if Santana is here!” Rachel bounces a little at his side and clutches at his elbow in excitement. “I’m going to go backstage and see if I can find her, tell her the good news.”

 

Kurt has a strong feeling that Santana isn’t going to think the news is all that good, but he won’t burst that particular bubble. Santana will have no problem doing that for him. Instead, he follows Rachel to the wings and tries not to think about why his heart is suddenly racing.

 

Santana is sitting just off-stage with the leggy blonde lead from last night. Their legs are spread wide in a stretch, but they seem to be paying more attention to each other than to their muscles. Rachel bounds up to them with a lack of tact that Kurt, at least, has learned to find endearing. He leaves her to her own devices.

 

The backstage area is fairly small, but there’s a door to the left leading out to a hallway. The walls have been painted white, graffitied over with names and designs and dirty drawings in a veritable rainbow of colors. There are doors leading to what Kurt assumes are dressing rooms. He can hear laughter coming from one in particular, and the faint, slow strums of a guitar from another.

 

Curious, Kurt follows the music.

 

As he gets closer, it becomes apparent that there are voices singing along. And – he knows one of them. He stops short, swallows down the surge in his gut, and then quickens his pace.

 

The door has been propped open, just enough that Kurt can see inside without interrupting.

 

There he is.

 

He couldn’t look more different from the Blaine Kurt met last night – dressed in gray sweats and a blue t-shirt with white horizontal stripes, face washed clean of make-up, and, most startling of all, hair slicked severely back. He’s sitting in a hard plastic chair, one leg tucked up beneath his thigh, facing his duet partner. Kurt vaguely recognizes the other guy from last night’s performance, but he couldn’t say exactly which number. He’s got floppy blond hair and remarkably large lips, and he’s dressed in a white tank-top that shows off his well-formed arms as he plays David Bowie for all that he’s worth.

 

_“We can be heroes, just for one day…”_

 

It’s a performance not meant for an audience, the two of them taking delight in each other’s company and the blend of their voices. It would probably be best for Kurt to leave them in peace, stop intruding on something that isn’t meant for him, but it’s hard to look away. Blaine is so lovely, and even more so like this, natural and relaxed and just…joyful. No smoke and mirrors, no seduction, no _acting_. Just _him_ , and his sweet smile, and his soulful voice.

 

Suddenly, Sue’s voice comes over the loudspeaker, dry and flat.

 

“Alright, lazy babies. Onstage in five or you’re fired.”

 

Taking that as his cue, Kurt heads back to the stage area to find Rachel and get the hell out before Sue decides they aren’t supposed to be there and rips up their contracts in front of their faces.

 

“Kurt?” he hears.

 

Oh, God.

He breathes in, turns around, and relaxes right away at the sight of Blaine’s bright, welcoming smile.

 

“Blaine, hi.”

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

“Rachel and I just signed our contracts, so I thought I’d come tell you the good news.”

 

It’s only kind of a lie. Blaine’s face lights completely up.

 

“Oh! That’s great! Congratulations, Kurt, I’m really happy for you.”

 

“Thanks. And thanks for whatever you said to Sue, you have no idea how much this means to me.”

 

Blaine laughs shortly.

 

“I think I might.”

 

His companion clears his throat, tired of waiting patiently.

 

“Oh, right! Kurt, this is Sam.”

 

Sam leans forward, holds out a hand to shake.

 

“White Chocolate, actually.”

 

Blaine rolls his eyes affectionately.

 

“Stick around long enough and you’ll get a nickname, too. It’s kind of Sue’s thing.”

 

“I’d noticed.”

 

Blaine smiles, but it turns apologetic almost immediately.

 

“Hey, I’d love to chat some more, but we’ve got to get to rehearsal.”

 

“Oh! Of course. I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble.”

 

“I’ll see you later, okay?”

 

He doesn’t wait for a reply, just waves his goodbye and turns to head for the stage, Sam’s arm slung casually over his shoulders. Kurt only watches for a moment before shaking himself and pulling out his phone to locate Rachel.

 

 _Out front_ , she replies curtly. And then, _Since I’m obviously not wanted inside_.

 

Santana. It must be, unless Rachel’s managed to have another run-in with Sue.

 

 _Sulking isn’t attractive_ , he sends back.

 

_Just get out here so we can go!_

 

They part ways almost as soon as they meet up – Rachel is running late for her closing shift, and Kurt isn’t ready to go home. He feels antsy, like he needs to move or he’ll burst out of his own skin, and there should still be a good few hours of daylight with which to explore the neighborhood. It will be good to get to know his future second home.

 

It’s not a particularly seedy part of Chelsea, especially not now, in the waning light of day, when everything has a sort of warm glow and the world feels beautiful. There are bars and restaurants and cafés, just like any other neighborhood, as well as apartment buildings and honking yellow cabs. There’s a swanky hotel just down the street, called The Tower, and an art gallery full of strange, cerebral sculptures that Kurt couldn’t even afford to breathe on.

 

He calls his dad as he wanders the sidewalks, unable to wait any longer, and it’s just what Kurt needs. The way he woops loud enough to make Kurt’s ears ring, the way he says, “I’m real proud of you, kid” with actual tears evident in his voice, it’s enough to give roots to the hope that’s nestled in his heart. This may not be the most…conventional way to stage a show, but they’ve got talent and passion and a _theater_. It will be enough.

 

They hang up once the congratulations have run dry so that his dad can go tell Carole and, probably, everyone else they know. Kurt’s on enough of a high afterwards that he decides he deserves a congratulatory mocha – maybe even full fat – and backtracks to the quaint little coffee shop that caught his eye some five blocks back. The Golden Elephant, it’s called, refreshing for its complete and utter lack of cute coffee-related punnage.

 

He finds a nice little table by the window and settles in with his drink (which is completely delicious – whipped cream was such a good decision). He’s content, for now, just to let his eyes and his mind wander. He has some serious re-writes to do before rehearsals start next week, and he needs to let the story sink into him before he can let any of it out onto the page.

 

Soon enough, he’s let go of his tether to the world outside of his head. He floats amongst magical sitars and beautiful slave boys who dream of flying away like a bird, snatches of barely-formed melodies echoing around him in a voice that’s already become so familiar.

 

It would be impossible to say how long he spends staring with unseeing eyes at the gleaming elephant emblem at the top of the menu board. All he knows is that the world beyond the window has gone dark by the time he startles to the surface.

 

It’s the voice that does it. _That_ voice, no longer just inside his head.

 

“Medium drip, please. To go.”

 

It’s Blaine. _There_ , paying at the register, and Kurt didn’t even see him come in. He’s wearing a spring-weight sweatshirt over his workout clothes, and his hair has started to fight against the gel. He smiles pleasantly at the barista and drops his change in the tip jar.

 

Kurt clears his throat.

 

“Blaine,” he calls, and Blaine whips around, polite smile ready at his lips. It warms when he sees Kurt, and he walks over to the table.

 

“Kurt, hi! I just keep running into you, don’t I?”

 

“Must be fate.”

 

Blaine shifts, expression gone ever-so-slightly uncomfortable, and Kurt could kick himself. It passes a second later, like a cloud moving over the sun.

 

“So, what are you up to?”

 

“Just…daydreaming. And avoiding the commute back to Bushwick for as long as possible.”

 

“Is that where you live?”

 

“Unfortunately. Are you on a coffee break or something?”

 

“No, we’re done for now. My call time isn’t until 9 PM, so I figured I’d get a little pre-dinner pick-me-up.”

 

Kurt struggles to find something to say that isn’t _of course, wouldn’t do to fall asleep in your line of work_ and contains absolutely zero references to getting it up, but his brain is apparently panicking and unable to function on any kind of normal level. Fortunately, this is the moment that the barista calls out Blaine’s order.

 

“Just a sec,” he says, and retrieves his drink with a smile that may or may not be designed to charm the socks off the barista but most certainly has that effect. Kurt bites his lip and refrains from banging his head against the table. Blaine doctors his drink with two packets of sugar and a dash of cream before returning to Kurt’s table.

 

“Would you care to join me?” offers Kurt, cool, calm, and collected once more.

 

“I was actually going to take this back to my apartment.” Kurt’s heart sinks a little, but the regretful posture of Blaine’s eyebrows gives him hope. As does the tentative smile he shoots Kurt a beat later. “Do you maybe want to come with me? We could talk, I could make you dinner – what do you say?”

 

Kurt blinks, but Blaine is still smiling his smile, eyebrows raised hopefully. It suddenly hits Kurt that this is the same person who was writhing around on a couch in fake ecstasy less than 24 hours ago. It’s enough to give him whiplash.

 

“Um. Sure. Do you live in the area?”

 

Blaine’s smile starts to edge slightly more toward the smirky end of the spectrum.

 

“You could say that, yeah.”

 

He doesn’t say anything more, doesn’t wait, just turns around like he expects Kurt to follow him. He doesn’t head for the front door, as Kurt was obviously expecting, but instead for a side door that Kurt assumed was for employees only. He punches in a code and ushers Kurt through to the staircase, and, yes, okay, now everything is making sense.

 

“You live _here_?”

 

“Top floor, lucky us.”

 

“Good view, at least?”

 

“Decent. The rooftop is better.”

 

“You’ll have to show me sometime.”

 

Blaine laughs and shoots Kurt an easy grin.

 

“Maybe I will.”

 

The building has ten stories, by Kurt’s count, which doesn’t sound like a lot until you have to climb nine flights of stairs. He’s panting a little by the time they reach the top, but he’s gratified to see that Blaine is, too.

 

His apartment is one of only three on the floor, and it’s far bigger than any place Kurt could afford on his own – it’s practically as big as the Bushwick loft he’s shared with Rachel since he moved to the city. He can’t help the low whistle he lets out as he takes it in.

 

“Thanks, I guess?” says Blaine, bemused at his reaction.

 

“This place is amazing, Blaine.”

 

It is, too, and not just because of the size. Blaine has excellent taste in home décor (old-fashioned, with strong, classic lines and the occasional touch of whimsy), and he keeps his living space neat and tidy. Heavy curtains cover a large picture window in the living room, hiding what promises to be a lovely view of the city. There’s a charmingly quaint cuckoo clock just above his mantel that quietly ticks the seconds.

 

Blaine gives him the tour, brief as it is, and jumps in to making dinner. He lets Kurt pick the music, and they fall into chatter over nice, light things such as Blaine’s iTunes library – eerily similar to Kurt’s, but with less Broadway and more art rock – and the recent edition of Vogue that Kurt spots on the coffee table.

 

“I actually used to work at Vogue.”

 

Blaine’s eyes go wide. It makes him look strangely young.

 

“What, really? Did you ever meet Anna Wintour?”

 

Kurt laughs.

 

“Sadly, no. It was Vogue.com, if you want to be particular. We were in a totally different building. Isabelle Wright was my boss, though.”

 

“No way! I love her. I’ve always wished she would do a men’s line.”

 

Kurt can imagine it, too – sleekly tailored pieces with surprising splashes of color, finished off with patterned bow ties for charm. Traditional and quirky and wearable all at once. Blaine looks so wistful at the thought, it warms something in Kurt’s heart.

 

From here, they veer into a discussion of Alexander McQueen and the impact of high fashion on current menswear trends, which inevitably leads to Kurt telling some of his favorite I-was-a-teenage-fashion-whore-in-small-town-Ohio stories. They make Blaine laugh, as intended, but his smile has gone slightly dimmed.

 

“Did you grow up in New York?” probes Kurt.

 

There’s a silence at that, while Blaine avoids his eyes. Finally, he seems to come to a decision. He sets his knife on the cutting board and looks up.

 

“No. I…I’m actually from Ohio as well.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah. I grew up less than half an hour from Lima.”

 

“That’s – wow, what a crazy coincidence! Most people I meet don’t even know where Ohio _is_ , beyond ‘somewhere in the middle.’ What school did you go to?”

 

“East Ada, for a while, then Dalton Academy, in Westerville. I moved here when I was 16.”

 

“Is your family still here?”

 

Blaine clenches his jaw, goes back to chopping onions.

 

“They never left Ohio, as far as I know.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Kurt wants to say so much more than that, but he doesn’t want to pry. He doesn’t want Blaine to feel like he has to reinforce his defenses.

 

Several moments pass before Blaine speaks again.

 

“So, tell me. How did Kurt Hummel go from premier fashionista of the Midwest to struggling New York playwright?”

 

“Well. New York was always the dream. You grew up there, you must remember what it was like.”

 

“Yeah.” His voice has a bitter twist that resonates with Kurt, more deeply than he would like.

 

“I promised myself I would get out, no matter what. I was going to show them all, become the brightest star that Broadway has ever known – so bright that _no one_ could touch me. I was going to make every homophobic Neanderthal hick in that town regret that they ever tried to make me feel worthless.”

 

“Weren’t we all?”

 

Their eyes meet. Blaine _knows_. He knows, and it touches a knot in Kurt’s heart that he’s long since learned to forget. He feels it start to unravel, just a little.

 

“I turned out to be a pretty terrible actor, though, so that plan didn’t exactly work out.” Blaine laughs, kindly, and Kurt smiles ruefully in return. “When I didn’t get into any of the musical theater programs I applied to, I knew I had to figure something out, and quickly. I toyed with the idea of fashion journalism – ”

 

“Hence, Vogue.com.”

 

“Hence Vogue.com, yes, but I realized pretty quickly that nothing would kill my passion for fashion more quickly than working in the industry. I started writing as a way to distract myself from thinking about my future, ironically enough. I’d written two full-length plays before I realized that it _was_ my future. I started at NYU the next fall.”

 

“And the rest is history?”

 

“That’s what I’m hoping for.”

 

Blaine is looking at him with his head cocked, like there’s something about him he’s trying to figure out.

 

“Don’t you miss it?”

 

“What?”

 

“Performing. The idea of giving it up, for anything…I don’t think I could do that.”

 

“That’s why I’m the writer.”

 

Blaine smiles lopsidedly, goes back to his saucepan.

 

“Touché.”

 

“Honestly, though, what I loved so much about being on stage was that people…they listen to you, you know? In high school, it was the only way I could be heard.”

 

“Believe me, I get it.”

 

“But I never liked being forced to use someone else’s words. So now I use my own.”

 

“I’ve always found that part of it kind of freeing.”

 

Silence hangs heavy between them for a few moments, while Rihanna sings about shining bright like a diamond. Kurt tries to work up the courage to ask how Blaine came to his…profession, but Blaine jumps in to ask him about his meeting with Sue before he can manage it. Kurt fills him in and, in turn, Blaine tells him the highlights of what he calls his “Crazy Sue” stories. The name is entirely apt, as it turns out – anyone who would quit her job as a high school cheerleading coach to become a madam deserves to have her sanity questioned.

 

It’s at some point after blow torches and before human cannonballs that Blaine takes his stir-fry off the burner and serves it neatly over two matching navy-and-red dinner plates. He sets the table with placemats and cloth napkins and more silverware than Kurt’s ever used for vegetables and rice.

 

“She does care about us, though,” he concludes. “You’ll see, she takes care of her own. You just don’t want to get on her bad side.”

 

“Duly noted. Speaking of, what’s the deal with Santana anyway? Rachel said she’d been banished to the chorus line.”

 

Blaine rolls his eyes.

 

“Oh, that. Sue has a very strict policy about body alterations, and Santana…well.”

 

He mimes something that can only be breast augmentation, cheeks puffed out like a balloon. Kurt bites his lip to control a silly grin, because, really, that should be more disturbing than endearing.

 

“I see.”

 

“She thought it might help her on auditions or something, I don’t know. Sue called a meeting and made us all sit through this lecture about ‘tampering with the goods,’ accompanied by the world’s most terrifying slide show of plastic surgery gone wrong.” He shudders. “She’s been calling Santana ‘Sandbags McGee’ ever since. Honestly, I think she thought she was doing Santana a favor, but all it’s done is make her angry.”

 

“Yeah, I sensed that.”

 

“She really is harmless, though. Both of them.”

 

Kurt isn’t entirely sure about that, but he keeps the thought to himself.

 

He turns the topic to Crazy Rachel stories, instead, keeping the worst of them (crack house, anyone?) at bay so as not to scare Blaine away before he’s even met her. He seems more amused than horrified, so that bodes well.

 

They clean up in companionable silence, finding an easy washing-drying rhythm that keeps their hands busy. Blaine hums along to the music as they work, singing the occasional chorus when the spirit moves him and wiggling his hips to the beat. It’s silly, and infectious, and Kurt can’t help but join in. Soon, they’re dueting to Lady Gaga and using the sponge as a microphone, and Blaine is looking so deeply into his eyes, when they meet, that he can probably see through to the giddy jolt of Kurt’s heart.

 

_“I want your love, and I want your revenge_

_I want your love, I don’t want to be friends…”_

 

This close, the sweep of his eyelashes is the prettiest thing Kurt has ever seen.

 

It’s over all too soon, and Kurt is nowhere near ready to leave. Blaine is so…surprising, and wonderful, and Kurt wants to hang on to this feeling he’s given him with both fists. He’s trying to find a graceful way to invite himself to stay longer when Blaine does it for him.

 

“Would like something to drink? I’ve got wine, I think, and probably beer, if you’d like.”

 

“Oh. Yes, a glass of wine would be nice.”

 

Long practice helps him tamp down the wattage of his smile until Blaine has turned his back, but it’s a near miss.

 

Blaine retrieves a bottle and two glasses and brings them to the living room, where they settle on the couch. It’s a red, which is about as far as Kurt’s wine knowledge takes him, though the bottle looks expensive to his inexpert eye. Blaine pours both glasses neatly and hands one off to Kurt.

 

“Sorry it’s not champagne. We really should be celebrating.”

 

“I thought we were.”

 

Blaine smiles warmly and raises his glass in a toast.

 

“To being heard.”

 

Kurt clinks his glass against Blaine’s and swallows against the sudden lump in his throat.

 

“I’ll drink to that.”

 

He gathers his courage.

 

“So,” he says, before Blaine can distract him once again. “About last night.”

 

Blaine winces and looks away.

 

“I guess we can’t just forget that ever happened, can we?”

 

“You told me we’d talk about it.”

 

Blaine sighs and slumps back against the couch cushions.

 

“Okay. What do you want to know?”

 

Kurt takes a moment to gather his thoughts before he continues. He’s not sure he knows how to do this delicately.

 

“So. Obviously, you’re a…”

 

“Prostitute?” he supplies, plainly. “Yeah, I figured that one was pretty clear.”

 

“Are all of the dancers…?”

 

“Pretty much. Obviously, we can’t exactly advertise that fact, but it’s a pretty open secret.”

 

“Can I ask how much, um…?”

 

Blaine smirks.

 

“More than you can afford.”

 

Kurt flushes a little, at his own audacity more than anything else, but he straightens his spine and makes himself press on. He’s making himself a part of this world, however tangentially, and he needs to understand it.

 

“How did you get into this…business, anyway? I mean, you’re such a talented performer, I would think – ”

 

“You think what I do at The Moulin Rouge isn’t performing?”

 

His tone is neutral, but it’s covering something that Kurt doesn’t quite know how to read.

 

“Of course it is. I just mean – you could do anything, Blaine. Why would you choose this?”

 

Blaine laughs. It isn’t a pleasant sound.

 

“Right. Because it’s just that easy.”

 

“I didn’t – ”

 

“It’s not as if I haven’t considered my other options, okay? I don’t _have_ other options. They don’t exist for people like me.”

 

It feels wrong, for something so acrid to come out of Blaine’s mouth.

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

Blaine looks at him, then, and the sneering curl of his lip softens. He deflates a little, sets his nearly-full glass back on the coffee table.

 

“When I first came to New York, I had nothing but the clothes I was wearing and a couple dollars in change. I spent the rest on the bus ticket from Ohio.”

 

“You ran away?”

 

“I was kicked out. My parents found out that I was seeing someone, and they were…displeased.”

 

“Because it was a boy?”

 

“Well, yes, although the fact that he was Jewish didn’t help. They’re very…religious, you see, if bigotry can be called a religion.”

 

“That’s – ”

 

“Disgusting, I know. They disowned my brother, too, when I was just a kid. I don’t know why. They never even mentioned him again. It was like he’d never existed.”

 

The look on his face is entirely heartbreaking, too old and too young at the same time. Kurt wants to reach out and soothe the jagged, rusty edges of his grief, but his body language is closed off and skittish. Kurt isn’t sure he could bear to see Blaine flinch away from his touch.

 

“I stayed with a friend for a while, but my parents stopped paying my tuition, and going back to public school was…not an option. So I bought myself a Greyhound ticket, and I haven’t looked back since.”

 

Blaine pauses, here, and Kurt fights himself to stay patient and silent.

 

“When I got here…I didn’t have anybody or anything, but at least I was in New York, you know? The city of my dreams – a veritable mecca for artists and lovers alike.” He lets out a sardonic laugh. “I used to cling to that when things got…hard. I tried – well, there were a lot of things I tried, but I was a kid, with no credits and not even a high school diploma, and no one would look at me twice. It wasn’t long before I got desperate. I met some people, figured out how to make some cash…” Kurt’s stomach gives an ugly twist, imagining just exactly what he means. “I did what I had to, to survive. Sue found me on my corner one night, gave me a chance, and, well – ”

 

“The rest is history.”

 

“You have to understand – I wasn’t really living until The Moulin Rouge. She gave me a home, you know? And now she’s giving me a chance to follow my dreams. I owe her everything.”

 

 _Even your freedom?_ Kurt wants to say. He doesn’t.

 

“This show is going to be amazing,” he says instead, and he means it down to the bone. It _has_ to be – for Blaine, for him, for Rachel, for every last talented performer at that club, because they deserve a chance to make the life that they want for themselves.

 

Blaine smiles, broad and beautiful, and he means it just as much.

 

“I know.”

 

Kurt can’t help himself this time – he feels the connection between them so strongly it’s like there’s a wire running between his heart and Blaine’s, and it crackles with electricity every time their eyes meet. He reaches out and takes Blaine’s hand in his, squeezes. Blaine looks down, surprised, then squeezes back. His grip is warm and firm. His smile is almost shy when he looks up into Kurt’s eyes and murmurs, “Come on, dance with me.”

 

“What?”

 

“I love this song. Would you do me the honor?”

 

Kurt is still a little dazed, but he can’t help but laugh when he registers the heavy, synthesized beat that can only be Depeche Mode. He lets Blaine pull him to his feet and holds tightly to his hands while they let their bodies move them through the beat.

 

_“When I’m with you, baby, I go out of my head,_

_And I just can’t get enough, I just can’t get enough…”_

 

They trade lines and harmonize, their bodies close and sharing more than heat.

_“We slip and slide as we fall in love_

_And I just can’t seem to get enough of…”_

 

And Kurt can’t, he really can’t, it doesn’t seem like he’ll ever get enough of Blaine, and none of the rest of it matters – his past, Blaine’s, the world beyond this apartment – because what he’s feeling right now is what he wants to feel forever. He feels…free. He feels drunk with it.

 

Which is why, when he pulls Blaine in for a low, silly dip, just as the last notes sound and Blaine is laughing with the joy of it, Kurt leans in and kisses him.

 

It doesn’t hit him right away, what he’s done, because Blaine kisses back, and it’s all that Kurt can do to keep them both more or less upright. Every nerve ending in his body is spiking sweet and sharp.

 

But then Blaine pulls back with a gasp, and his hands scrabble against Kurt’s back until Kurt lets him go, and then he’s stumbling away, like he needs the distance, like he can’t breathe without distance between them.

 

It’s like ice water mainlined directly into Kurt’s veins. He’s not sure what came over him, or what just happened, because Blaine is _panicking_ , and Kurt doesn’t understand why.

 

“I – I’m sorry,” he manages.

 

“That can’t happen again.”

 

“I don’t – ”

 

“It’s not because – Kurt, I do care about you, but – this can’t – I’m not – you should go. Please. I’ve got to get to work.”

 

He won’t meet Kurt’s eyes, and Kurt is too numb to do anything but nod woodenly.

 

“Okay. I’ll just – I really am sorry, Blaine. I don’t know what came over me.”

 

“It’s fine. Just – I’ll see you at rehearsal, okay? We can forget this ever happened.”

 

Kurt gathers his things and leaves in a hurry, horrified at himself and still so confused. The way Blaine was looking at him, and the way he kissed him back…and the way he looked like he was going to throw up, after. None of it makes sense.

 

He can’t bring himself to get on the subway, after that, hates the idea of being trapped underground, so he finds himself wandering aimlessly through the dark city streets, grateful for the cool air against his cheeks. He wishes he could look up and see the stars, like he used to from his bedroom in Lima. Seeing the lights like little cut jewels in the sky always helped him clear his head.

 

One thing is absolutely clear to him, now that he’s alone with his thoughts: he has been acting like a crazy person.

 

Or maybe he actually is a crazy person. It would be as good an explanation as any for the way he’s been acting since he set foot in The Moulin Rouge last night. It’s the only explanation he can think of for the impulses Blaine brings out in him with the slightest flirt of his eyes. The only other possibility is…not possible.

 

He’s known Blaine for less than 24 hours. Blaine is a – a _gigolo_ , for God’s sake.

 

And yet…

 

Kurt has never been in love. He’s had plenty of crushes (most of them on straight guys) and a few infatuations that he thought were the real deal until they faded. His longest relationship was four months, his freshman year at NYU, with a guy he missed more for his scarf  collection than for his actual self after they broke up. Everything he knows about love – real, true, lasting love – he learned from Broadway musicals.

 

But the thing is, despite all of this, Kurt still believes in love. Above all things, he believes in love. It’s a secret he keeps locked in his heart, away from prying eyes, because it’s too precious to share. He’s a romantic, like his father, and he won’t let that part of his soul be washed away with cynicism, no matter how fashionable it may be.

 

So he can’t help but wonder…

 

He’s _never_ felt the way he does with Blaine. It’s so big, so very out of his control, bubbling up beneath the surface of his skin from the deepest, darkest corners of his heart.

 

It shouldn’t be possible, it _can’t_ be, but maybe it is.

 

Maybe, just maybe, Kurt Hummel is falling in love.

 

It’s at the moment of this realization, when his heart is rocketing up and plunging down, almost simultaneously, that his phone sounds with Rachel’s custom text alert.

 

_Where are you?_

 

He taps out his reply with shaking fingers, equally relieved and frustrated at being pulled out of his head.

 

_Still in Chelsea._

_You never left?!?_

_I ran into Blaine. We had dinner together._

_??? You have some explaining to do, mister!_

_There’s nothing to explain._

_I’ll be the judge of that. Anyway, stay where you are!_

_Oh, God. Why?_

_Hazel’s taking us out to celebrate!_

_In Chelsea?_

_See you soon!_

 

Kurt groans, not that it has the full effect without Rachel there to hear it. She can’t be _serious_.

 

He resigns himself to a long night.


	3. Silly Love Songs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music in this chapter: "Lady Marmalade," "Billionaire," "Payphone," "Silly Love Songs," "Love Will Tear Us Apart," "Being Alive"

**Chapter 3: Silly Love Songs**

 

Just as Kurt predicted, Rachel is practically desperate to show off their new performance space.

 

Hazel is just the sort of painfully pretty blonde that’s always set Rachel’s teeth on edge – the kind who was practically designed to make other girls feel insecure about their bone structure, but whose accomplishments tend to end at being voted Prom Queen and/or marrying rich. She also happens to be a Tisch graduate, Rachel’s co-worker, and one of her main sources of competition on the audition circuit, so of course Rachel wants to shove the evidence of her success in Hazel’s face.

 

“It’s an _amazing_ space,” she gushes, just toeing the line between excited and smug.

 

“I’m sure it is, sweetie. I’m just so _happy_ for you!” squeals Hazel in return. Her display of teeth is quite dazzling, but Kurt isn’t buying what she’s selling. “I can’t wait to see your little show!”

 

If Kurt believed in such things, this is the point at which he would start praying for patience.

 

He manages to convince Rachel – via much under-the-breath hissing and behind-the-back gesturing and maybe a minor dose of none-too-gentle elbowing – that actually going inside The Moulin Rouge is a terrible idea, but she won’t let go of it entirely.

 

“I just want to _show_ her, Kurt,” she grits out. “What’s the harm?”

 

Kurt rolls his eyes and lets her drag him down the street and doesn’t butt in as she talks Hazel’s ear off about the space’s many charms and its endless potential, and he doesn’t even sigh when she plays up her own role in the deal to the point where she’s got Sue literally begging on her knees for Rachel to take the part. When they get there, he allows her to preen in front of the flashing neon windmill sign for approximately ten seconds without comment, and then he takes her elbow and is officially done indulging her crazy for the night.

 

Hazel seems more confused than impressed.

 

They end up at a bar called Absinthe, chosen for its proximity and its karaoke machine. Inside, the scheme of décor seems to be 19th century France meets Peter Pan, art nouveau posters intermixed with stylized fairies, rendered in all shades of green. The lighting is low and tinted in greens and blues. A little strange, perhaps, but not without its own charm.

 

Rachel and Hazel sign up for karaoke right away, which leaves Kurt conflicted: sit back and watch what will surely be an epic musical cat fight or put his name down for some Whitney and show them how it’s done? He decides to wait and see where the night and his blood-alcohol level take him.

 

Things start to blur together a little bit from there, a swirl of cosmos and tequila shots and dueling pop divas, until Kurt and Hazel are bonding loudly over their deep and abiding love for _The Golden Girls_ and Rachel is throwing her arms around him and rubbing her face against his shoulder in a way that would make him uncomfortable if he had less liquor floating around in his brain.

 

“We should sing something _together_ ,” says Rachel, eyes wide like it’s the best idea she’s ever had. “Like, the two of you can be my duet partners. _Together_.”

 

Kurt laughs, because this is funny, and Hazel squeals, “Totally!” in a way that’s less fake and more squeaky, and Kurt laughs again because that is _hilarious_.

 

Rachel is in charge of song-choosing because Kurt is too busy telling Hazel about his idea for a _Golden Girls_ musical, starring Betty White, of course, because Betty White is a goddess who doesn’t age, and it would be _wrong_ to stage something like that without her.

 

Rachel tugs them up on stage when it’s their turn, and Kurt still doesn’t know what song she’s picked until the music starts.

 

_“Hey sister, go sister, soul sister, go sister…”_

 

He’d kill Rachel a little bit, but he’s loose, and happy, and Blaine feels so far away right now, even though the thought of him sends tingles of thrill tripping down his spine. And he’s singing, which is _fun_.

 

_“He met Marmalade down in old New Orleans_

_Struttin' her stuff on the street_

_She said, "Hello, hey Joe_

_You wanna give it a go?"_

 

The audience is into it, and his inhibitions have been shredded to bits, so it’s possible that he gets a little carried away acting out the lyrics and shaking his ass like an idiot. But then, so do Rachel and definitely Hazel, who’s got the worst sexy faces that Kurt’s ever seen, like, ever, so he doesn’t worry about it.

 

It’s not like Blaine is here to see him. He might even be on stage himself, though he probably looks a lot more actually-sexy and not at all fake-sexy.

 

Kurt’s not going to think about that. He’s got his adoring fans to worry about, and a song to sell. He’s going to leave them begging for more.

 

It’s right around the third or fourth “ _Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?”_ that Kurt realizes his thoughts may actually have some sort of summoning power. One moment, he’s scanning the crowd with his best sex-kitten pout, and the next – there he is, looking up at Kurt from a table of freshly-arrived Moulin Rouge dancers. Blaine, with faint traces of eye makeup still smudged at the edges, hair loosened up, and an outfit that could have been pulled directly from the Brooks Brothers catalogue and does wonders for the natural shape of his body. His expression is amused but guarded, and he raises his glass in a toast when Kurt meets his eye.

 

Suddenly, Kurt feels much more sober. Or at least more aware of how not-sober he is. It’s hard to tell, with the way the world spins at the edges when he moves his head from side to side.

 

He doesn’t go say hello when the music is over, even though he really, really wants to, because he doesn’t trust himself not to babble, and Blaine might not want to see him at all, considering the way they left things earlier this evening. If he’s even real, which Kurt is starting to doubt – the bar is called Absinthe, so who knows what they put in their drinks? Either way, better not to risk it.

 

Kurt slumps into his chair and decides to put himself on a strict diet of water and French fries for the rest of the night, starting as soon as he downs that one last swallow of cosmo, because it would be a shame to waste good vodka. He forces himself to keep his gaze on Rachel and Hazel, who are hugging and jumping up and down and kind of squealing overly-effusive compliments at each other, and to ignore the rat-a-tat drumming of his pulse.

 

It’s only moments before Blaine is ambling over to their table, polite smile firmly in place.

 

“Blaine!” says Kurt, although it’s really more of a blurt, bypassing Kurt’s filters in favor of leaping out his mouth.

 

“Hi, Kurt. I, uh, didn’t expect to see you here.”

 

“Yeah, I didn’t expect to see me here, either. Or you.”

 

Blaine glances uncomfortably back at his table.

 

“Sue let some of us off early. It’s kind of our regular spot.”

 

“I made him come out so we could _celebrate_!” puts in Rachel, raising her empty glass in a wavering toast.

 

Blaine turns to her with a pleasant smile.

 

“You must be Rachel. Kurt’s told me a lot about you.”

 

Rachel smiles prettily at this, fluffing up her feathers at what she assumes is a compliment, but Kurt can’t hold back a snicker. He remembers exactly the kinds of things he told Blaine.

 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says slowly, careful not to slur, flipping her hair back in a flirt that she must have forgotten would be completely useless.

 

“Likewise. Your performance was excellent. All of you.”

 

He’s smiling kindly, but he’s gearing up to go, to leave them, Kurt can tell by the tone in his voice and the way he keeps glancing back at his table. Sam is there, glancing too, expression written all over with something that could be worry or exasperation or both.

 

Kurt has a sudden, horrible thought. _Are they…? Is that why…?_

 

“You should have a drink with us!” says Rachel, and it’s a good thing, too, because Kurt knows he was about to do the same thing, and he’d really like to save some of his dignity.

 

“Oh, um, thank you, but I should really be getting back. We’re celebrating, too.”

 

Rachel’s eyes light up.

 

“We should celebrate _together_!”

 

Blaine looks hesitant, but Rachel is already gathering her things, and Hazel is staring dreamily at the table of perfectly-muscled Moulin Rouge dancers, and Kurt knows this is inevitable.

 

“As long as you don’t mind,” he adds, softly as he can above the noise, just for Blaine.

 

Blaine hesitates again, then smiles his perfectly polite smile.

 

“Not at all.”

 

Introductions go around once they’ve all settled at their crowded little table, but the names fly out of Kurt’s head the second they enter. He can’t concentrate right now on anything but sipping his water and trying to read the body language between Blaine and Sam, who are pressed tightly together, thigh to shoulder, and look at each other as though they’re telepathic.

 

People talk to him, and he talks back, but it’s the kind of small talk that requires very little brain, and he knows he won’t remember it in the morning, not like he’ll remember the way Blaine throws his head back when he laughs at Sam’s jokes, unguarded and lovely, exposing the strong line of his throat and the shift of his Adam’s apple.

 

Sam seems like a nice enough guy. An affable, silly sort who does Darth Vader impressions and calls people “dude.” Kurt will never be like that. He’s never had that sort of ease with people. And it’s not that he’s jealous or something, but it doesn’t help that Sam keeps reaching up to ruffle Blaine’s hair, or that Blaine lets him. There’s real affection between them when they look at each other. It’s almost tangible.

 

Not that Kurt’s jealous.

 

“Are you two…together?” asks Rachel, suddenly, voice loud next to Kurt’s ear. It startles him enough that he jolts, but he’s never been more grateful for Rachel’s ability to speak aloud the thoughts that Kurt holds back. He glances at her, difficult though it is with her chin resting heavily on his shoulder. She’s staring at them in wide-eyed fascination.

 

Blaine’s eyebrows shoot up, and Sam guffaws. They look at each other, amused.

 

“Sam is straight,” explains Blaine.

 

“And Blaine doesn’t ‘do’ relationships.”

 

Blaine shoots Sam a warning look and glances fleetingly at Kurt.

 

“It’s not exactly practical, given our line of work,” he says carefully.

 

Sam is clearly holding something back. Blaine elbows him lightly, subtly enough that Kurt is pretty sure he’s the only one who sees.

 

Rachel brightens and sits up straight, jostling Kurt and almost knocking him into his glass.

 

“Your _old_ line of work, you mean. Once our show is a raging success, you’ll be a _star_ , and you’ll never have to resort to sex work ever again! And I’ll finally be able to get the smell of coffee beans out of my hair.”

 

She sniffs at it mournfully, but Kurt is too busy panicking at the fact that Hazel is _right there_ to laugh at her plight. Fortunately, Hazel is so drunk that her laughter is really just a series of inelegant snorts, and she isn’t paying attention to anyone beyond the beefy dancer at her side.

 

Blaine smiles tightly.

 

“True.”

 

Sam claps him on the shoulder.

 

“Dude, let’s get our karaoke on.”

 

Blaine perks up, and Sam grabs the song catalogue, and Kurt contents himself with half-listening to Rachel’s conversation with some guy across the table – Bruce, maybe? – about the horrors of working in customer service. His mind is still stuck on _Blaine doesn’t ‘do’ relationships_.

 

He hadn’t really thought about it like that before, the difficulties inherent in a relationship with somebody whose _job_ is to have sex with strangers. His thoughts on the matter hadn’t really extended beyond _BlaineBlaineBlaineBlaineBlaine_ , to be honest.

 

He can see, now, why someone like Blaine might shy away from romance, because it isn’t like monogamy would even be an option for him. But Rachel is right – Sue is closing the club for renovations at the end of the week. It shouldn’t be an issue anymore.

 

Kurt has a feeling that there’s more to it than that, but his brain is still foggy, and he can’t think beyond the new hope that’s started to bloom inside him.

 

They’ll talk, he decides. They’ll talk, and they’ll figure it out, because he can already tell that this thing between them is worth fighting for.

 

Sam is up first, with a tongue-in-cheek version of “Billionaire.” His voice is nice, if a little bland, and his moves charmingly boyband. He has the room eating out of the palm of his hand by the end of it. He takes a bow and hands the microphone over to Blaine, thumping his shoulder in the international sign for bro-dom.

 

“Let’s give it up one more time for Sam,” says Blaine with a grin, as Sam takes his leave. He waits for the cheers to die down once more before continuing. “My name is Blaine, and this goes out to everyone who’s as fed up with love songs as I am.”

 

Kurt feels himself simultaneously bristle and sit up to attention. He recognizes the song right away. Blaine doesn’t look in his direction, but he can feel it anyway, the way the song is directed at him.

 

_“I’m at a payphone trying to call home,_

_All of my change I spent on you…”_

 

It’s different, watching him perform here. It’s stripped down – no dancers, no costumes, just Blaine’s voice and a backing track. It isn’t meant to make the audience want him so bad they’ll pay for the privilege and thank him for it after. And yet, he’s no less magnetic.

 

Kurt is as sober as he’s been all night, watching Blaine pour his heart into the song, communicating something that he doesn’t have the words to say.

 

_“If Happy Ever After did exist,_

_I would still be holding you like this._

_All those fairy tales are full of it,_

_One more stupid love song, I’ll be sick…”_

 

And Kurt gets it, he really does, but Blaine is _wrong_ , and Kurt is going to show him. He signs up for a slot and doesn’t need to check the catalogues to know what he’s going to sing.

 

Blaine finishes the song to well-deserved applause. Kurt smiles at him and doesn’t comment when he returns to the table and takes his seat. It can wait.

 

He’s up like a shot when his turn is called. He introduces himself and lets the music do the rest of his talking.

 

_“You’d think that people would have had enough of silly love songs,_

_But I look around me and I see it isn’t so._

_Some people wanna fill the world with silly love songs,_

_And what’s wrong with that?_

_I’d like to know, ‘cause here I go again…”_

 

He’s careful to play it to the whole room, but he’s fairly sure his point lands. Blaine is narrow-eyed and guarded when Kurt gets back to the table.

 

“Interesting song choice,” he comments.

 

“I’ve always loved Paul McCartney,” says Kurt, with what he hopes is an appropriately casual airiness.

 

Blaine presses his lips together, clenches his jaw, and doesn’t say another word. Until –

 

It’s a song that Kurt doesn’t know, quick-paced and almost robotic, with heavy synth and a driving beat. The message quickly becomes clear.

 

_“Love, love will tear us apart again…”_

 

There could be no mistaking, this time, that the song is for him. A warning, maybe, or an explanation, but Blaine is looking right into his eyes without the slightest hint of a flinch.

 

_“Do you cry out in your sleep?_

_All my failings exposed…_

_Gets a taste in my mouth_

_As desperation takes hold._

_Why is it something so good_

_Just can’t function no more?_

_Love, love will tear us apart again…”_

 

And Kurt knows exactly how to follow it up.

                                                                                        

He sang it for an audience, once, when he auditioned for NYADA the second time, but he’s stayed away from it since. Madam Tibideaux told him then that it was clear he didn’t have the depth for that kind of song, that his take on it was technically proficient but lacked the emotional power to make it truly great. He knew she was right, despite his defensive sputtering at the time, because it was a song about being in love, and the pain it can bring, and how it’s worth every last drop. Kurt believed in the sentiment so very desperately, but he’d never _felt_ it.

 

He’s starting to feel it now.

 

He closes his eyes and lets the opening strains of the piano wash over him and sink in through his skin. He opens them.

 

_“Someone to hold you too close,_

_Someone to hurt you too deep…”_

 

The words feel new, like it’s the first time his tongue has formed the shape of them instead of the thousandth. His voice teeters a little on the power notes, and his vibrato is shot to hell, but it doesn’t matter. He just wants Blaine to listen – he has to understand, has to know what he’s closing himself off to.

 

_“Somebody, hold me too close,_

_Somebody, hurt me too deep,_

_Somebody, sit in my chair_

_And ruin my sleep_

_And make me aware_

_Of being alive_

_Being alive…”_

 

That feeling is worth _everything_.

 

Blaine’s eyes are fixed to him, now, and the weight of it is almost too much to bear.

 

 _“Somebody, crowd me with love,_  
Somebody, force me to care,  
Somebody, make me come through,  
I'll always be there,  
As frightened as you,  
To help us survive  
Being alive…”

 

There’s a moment of suspended silence when the song is over, before the applause begin. Kurt would be thrilled, but there’s only one opinion he cares about tonight, and Blaine’s expression is unreadable in the dark, colored light.

 

He returns to his seat. Rachel pounces on him, but he’s quick to tune her out. Blaine swallows, hard, and won’t meet his eyes.

 

“That was…really beautiful, Kurt.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

Blaine looks up then, and stares at Kurt like he can’t help it, like he’s at an utter loss. Kurt can hardly breathe. Blaine opens his mouth as if to say something more, but Sam nudges at his shoulder before he has the chance.

 

“So, what’ll it be next?” he asks, dry and teasing. “Let me guess, ‘Love Stinks’?”

 

Blaine rolls his eyes and mutters, “Shut up,” but the mood has been broken, and Kurt may never forgive Sam for that. Even if he does toss Kurt a conspiratorial wink.

 

Blaine goes…strange, after that. He’s fidgeting and quiet, eyes darting over to Kurt with a frequency that has Kurt’s heart doing double time. It isn’t five minutes before Blaine is clearing his throat and announcing that he’s had enough for the night. He says something in Sam’s ear and quells the table’s light-hearted protests with a tight smile, while Kurt’s insides attempt to sink down to his toes in disappointment.

 

Blaine leans in close, before he leaves, for a goodbye hug. His lips brush the shell of Kurt’s ear as he speaks.

 

“Meet me outside, okay? Ten minutes.”

 

“Okay,” Kurt breathes.

 

The next ten minutes drag on and on, while Kurt’s thoughts race to keep time with his heart. He tunes out of the conversations around him and focuses on breathing, in and out.

 

Finally, the time is up. He fakes a huge yawn and makes his excuses to Rachel, who, thankfully, isn’t ready to go or in any kind of state of mind to question him.

 

The night seems so quiet, after the noise of the bar.

 

Blaine is leaning against the wall, looking up at the sky, lost in thought. Kurt goes to him.

 

“Blaine.”

 

He starts, then gives a tentative smile.

 

“Hi.”

 

“Can we talk?”

 

He looks at Kurt for a moment. He sighs, like he’s giving in, and nods.

 

“Yeah. Let’s go back to my place, okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

The silence between them is comfortable as they walk side by side. Neither of them breaks it, not for the entire ten-block and nine-story walk back to Blaine’s apartment.

 

Blaine pauses once they reach his door and turns to Kurt.

 

“Do you want to go up to the roof? The view is amazing at night.”

 

Kurt agrees, and they trudge up yet another flight of stairs. It’s no wonder Blaine’s thigh muscles are so beautifully formed.

 

He’s right. Manhattan stretches in front of them, lit up like the stars themselves have become unpinned from the sky and fallen to the buildings below. They lean side by side on the ledge and look on in silence.

 

Blaine is the one to break it.

 

“I can’t fall in love with you,” he says, abruptly. “I can’t fall in love with anyone.”

 

Kurt tears his eyes away from the city lights to look at Blaine.

 

“Why not?”

 

Blaine laughs, shortly, and looks away.

 

“It’s bad for business.”

 

“Come on, Blaine, don’t do that. _Talk_ to me.”

 

“Look, Kurt, love is a luxury that I can’t afford. I’ve made my peace with that.”

 

“That’s ridiculous. Love is…like oxygen.”

 

“‘You get too much, you get too high’?”

 

His voice is dry, a smirk twisting up the corner of one lip.

 

“No. Love is the _point_ , isn’t it? It’s what makes life worth anything at all.”

 

“Have you ever actually been in love?”

 

“Well, no, but – ”

 

“Then how do you know?”

 

“Because _this_ , what I feel when I’m with you – it’s the most alive I’ve ever felt, Blaine. You can’t tell me you don’t feel it, too.”

 

Blaine softens immediately, and his eyes go painfully vulnerable for a moment before the shutters come back down.

 

“It doesn’t matter. I’ve told you, I can’t.”

 

“But _why_?”

 

Blaine closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he’s looking out at the city. Kurt watches his profile.

 

“Do you remember last night, with Sebastian, when I brought up the exclusivity contract?”

 

Kurt didn’t, until now.

 

“Yes. What does that – ?”

 

“Most people can’t afford one, but Sebastian…he’s funding the entire cost of the renovation and a good chunk of the production itself. Your fee, for example, costumes, sets…none of it would be possible without him. It’s more than enough to pay for a contract.”

 

“Okay, but what – ?”

 

“It gives him exclusive rights over…me, I suppose. He’s my only client until the contract terminates.”

 

“Wait, but Sue is shutting down that side of things, isn’t she? That’s kind of the point of this project, isn’t it?”

 

“It was the only way to get him to commit.”

 

Kurt lets this sink in. It’s kind of making him feel sick.

 

“How long is the contract?”

 

“A year. Starting from opening night.”

 

“A _year_? You’re telling me that you’ve basically agreed to be that smirky little meerkat’s _sex slave_ for an entire _year_?”

 

Blaine goes cold as ice, staring out, unseeing, at the busy world beyond.

 

“It’s not slavery if I’m getting paid.”

 

“It’s a pretty fine line!”

 

“No, it’s not! This is my _choice_! This is a way out, Kurt, for all of us. We _need_ this. It’s no different from what I’ve been doing to put food in my mouth and a roof over my head since you were still in high school. The stakes are higher, sure, but the pay-off is my _freedom_ , Kurt. You can’t possibly understand what that means to me. It’s worth everything.”

 

Kurt bites back what was sure to be a sharp reply.

 

Because he’s right, is the thing. Kurt doesn’t understand that kind of desperation. There were times in high school when Kurt swore he would do anything to get out – he thought in his darkest moments that he might even have it in him to _kill_ if it meant he could get to a place where people wouldn’t hate him just for existing – but he’s never even imagined a situation in which he would consider using his own body as bargaining chip. It’s hard for him to even touch the thought of it.

 

“Okay. You’re right. I don’t understand, but I shouldn’t judge you. I’m just…worried.”

 

“Don’t be. I know how to take care of myself.”

 

“I know. But what if he…hurts you or something? What would happen if you wanted to terminate the contract?”

 

Blaine bites his lip.

 

“He would pull funding, obviously. And he – he’s a powerful man. I don’t particularly want to know what else he’s capable of. It wouldn’t be pleasant.”

 

“ _Blaine_.”

 

“It’s already done. The contracts are signed, he’s written his check. It’s only a year, in any case.”

 

The look on his face is diamond-hard – not to be swayed. Kurt’s heart sinks.

 

“What about your personal life?”

 

“What about it?”

 

“Are you allowed to have one?”

 

“Technically, I suppose. The contract is strictly business.”

 

“Then what’s stopping you from…?” He trails off, because he doesn’t know how to define this thing that’s started between them without their bidding. Blaine turns to meet his gaze, startled and wide-eyed, and Kurt knows he understands.

 

“You can’t mean you still want to pursue…whatever this is.”

 

“Why wouldn’t I?”

 

“You said it yourself, I’ll be having sex with another man on a regular basis for a _year_.”

 

“Starting in about three months’ time. And besides, like you said – that’s just business. It wouldn’t have anything to do with us.”

 

Blaine is searching him, almost frantically, his eyes darting back and forth and up and down until he breathes in shakily and says, “We would have to keep it hidden. Sebastian could never find out.”

 

“We’ll be careful. He won’t.”

 

“And I can’t make any promises, Kurt. That’s not how my life works.”

 

“I know. That’s not how _life_ works.”

 

Blaine smiles at that, small and so achingly sweet. He bites his lip, like he’s holding himself back, while Kurt’s heart tries to beat right out of his chest and into Blaine’s. He reaches out and takes Blaine’s hand gently in his. He laces their fingers together and marvels for a moment at the sight of it. When he looks up, Blaine’s eyes have gone soft and warm.

 

“Okay,” he says, softly.

 

“Okay,” echoes Kurt.

 

It’s not clear who leans in first, but this – the fit of Blaine’s lips with his, and the tender give of them as they move, the heat of his body beneath Kurt’s hands and the slight angle of his head tilted back to reach Kurt’s mouth – it’s the most right Kurt has ever felt in his own body. _This_ must be what it’s meant for.

 

The world fades out around them, and time ceases to have any meaning at all, and none of it matters, because they’ve started something big and bright and burning, and Kurt is happy to let it consume him.


	4. ...Now You're In The World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music in this chapter: "At Last," "In Your Eyes"

**Chapter 4: …Now You’re In The World**

 

The next morning finds the Bushwick loft a study in contrast: Kurt, humming to the tune in his head as he stirs cream into his coffee, and Rachel, shuffling into the kitchen with her eyes squeezed tightly shut against the daylight. She has mascara smudged all the way down to her cheekbones, and her hair has bypassed messy on the way to rat’s nest.

 

“Why are you so happy?” she rasps. And then, once she’s seen the kitchen clock, “Why is it so _early_? You couldn’t have gotten home more than an hour before I did.”

                                                                                           

She was passed out when he came home, as a matter of fact. The sky was already starting to lighten with the coming dawn.

 

“I guess I’m just a better morning person than you. And I can hold my liquor better.”

 

“Don’t talk about liquor,” she groans. “Please.”

 

“This is why you stick to water after midnight.”

 

She winces.

 

“I think I’m just going to go back to bed.”

 

“Hydration first.” He holds out a tall glass of orange juice, poured just for her, and she takes it with the most grateful look she can manage in her current state. “And use ear plugs so I don’t have to tip-toe around the apartment.”

 

She grunts in acknowledgement, and Kurt goes back to humming. He knows he’ll probably crash at some point, because two and a half hours of sleep is enough for no human, but right now he’s too wired to even think about his bed.

 

He grins a little, to the images of last night that he’s already stored behind protective glass casing in his brain. It was _perfect_. They talked, they made out, they made plans…

 

They’re meeting for lunch today, actually, at a little place in Greenwich Village that Kurt has been meaning to try and knows is unlikely to be frequented by people they know. While it’s a little inconvenient, Kurt is more than willing to go along with the secrecy – he still remembers the easy way that Sebastian threw him against the wall, the night they met, the anger in him like a tightly coiled spring, just waiting to be tripped.

 

“I know his type,” Blaine told him, his fingers fidgeting with Kurt’s in the scant space between them. “It won’t matter to him that the contract doesn’t start until opening night. There’s a reason Sue took me off duty tonight, and it isn’t because she felt like being nice – he doesn’t just want a sex doll he can use and discard, you know? He wants a living, breathing person who’ll beg for him. He wants to look into someone’s eyes and know that he’s the only thing they see, the only thing they’ll _ever_ see, because he’s ruined them for all other men.”

 

“Sounds to me like he wants to be worshipped.”

 

“Well, yes. The illusion of it, at least. That’s what he’s buying. That’s why he signed the contract. If he knew I wasn’t sitting at home every night pining away for him…well, he wouldn’t like it.”

 

And that can’t happen. Sebastian is nothing more than a spoiled trust fund brat with a nasty jealous streak, but he holds all of them in the palm of his hand. He could crunch them to dust with just one squeeze, and Kurt is sure he wouldn’t hesitate to do it.

 

Kurt will probably have to tell Rachel at some point, or else she’ll figure it out and blurt to exactly the wrong people, but he’ll wait to cross that bridge until they come to it. It shouldn’t be too difficult to fabricate excuses for the lead actor and the playwright to meet after hours, after all. It’s not like Sebastian will be there, breathing down their necks.

 

The morning passes quickly, despite Kurt’s impatience to see Blaine. He’s feeling inspired, and spends the majority of those long hours trapped in a writing vortex. He’s so deep in it, he’s almost late. As it is, he has to forget his plans to create the perfect first-official-date outfit and doesn’t have time to do more with his coif than run a comb through it and secure the shape of it with hairspray.

 

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t stop Blaine’s smile from lighting up the whole world when they set eyes on each other.

 

They hold hands beneath the table (because Blaine is paranoid) and talk about light, silly things, and their giddiness may be due to the deadly combination of extreme exhaustion and too much coffee, but that doesn’t diminish the fluttering Kurt feels whenever their eyes catch. Blaine must be feeling it, too, because he pulls Kurt into the alley, once they’ve left, and pushes him into the wall for a long, dirty kiss. Kurt slides his arms over Blaine’s shoulders and hooks them behind his neck, reeling him in and marveling at the feel of his body so close. He doesn’t once think of the dirty brick behind his back, or the likelihood that he’ll have to retire this jacket until he can get it cleaned.

 

“See you tonight?” breathes Blaine, once they’ve pulled reluctantly back.

 

Kurt nods, bumping his forehead into Blaine’s.

 

“I’ll text you when I’m close.”

 

One last kiss, a quick press of their smiling lips, and one last lingering glance, and they part ways.

 

Kurt has never been happier.

 

The rest of the week passes in a similar fashion. Kurt writes, and he sees Blaine whenever he can, and he feels like he might float away with the blissful lightness of it all. Rachel is so busy doing vocal warm-ups and practicing on the sitar she rented from some music store in the West Village – “It’s a quintessential part of her _character_ , Kurt, I’m not taking it back until I’ve mastered it” – that she doesn’t comment on his prolonged absences or the rather drastic change in his mood. He isn’t sure how long that can last, but she’s always had a tendency to absorb herself in the roles she plays. It’s usually kind of annoying, but he’s thankful for it now.

 

His dad, on the other hand, comments almost right away.

 

“Is something going on there, Kurt?”

 

“What? What do you mean, what would be going on?”

 

“I don’t know, but you’re more hyped up than you were the week that prince got married.”

 

Kurt pauses. That was a good week. He must have re-watched the ceremony about 20 times, and cried every time. He plastered his locker with pictures of the royal couple and the most fashionable of the wedding guests, and spent the rest of the school year planning out a musical homage to Pippa Middleton that never came to fruition.

 

“It’s just, you know, the play.”

 

His dad lets out a skeptical grunt.

 

“Did you meet someone?”

 

Kurt pauses again. Avoiding the subject is one thing, but he draws the line at lying to his dad. He chooses his words carefully.

 

“Okay, yes, fine, you caught me. It’s, um, pretty new, though, so I’d rather not talk about it.”

 

“You like him?”

 

Kurt smiles. It’s involuntary, like a reflex.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“He treat you right?”

 

He holds back a dreamy sigh, but only barely.

 

“Definitely.”

 

“Well, then, I’m happy for you, kid. Let me know when things get serious.”

 

The thing is, Kurt is pretty sure they already are. They have been since the moment they met.

 

“Sure, Dad.”

 

His dad lets him change the subject from there, and doesn’t bring it up again.

 

All too soon, the week is over. Monday comes, and, with it, the first read-through and the end of their time in the bubble they’ve built for themselves. The real work of hiding starts now, and Kurt is ready with his game face.

 

Because of the construction being done on the interior of The Moulin Rouge, Sue has rented a rehearsal studio located conveniently in the building next door. Kurt and Rachel arrive early, armed with copies of the latest script revision, this one finished not one hour prior. Blaine is there, too, and they allow themselves a shared, private smile before launching into their roles as colleagues-slash-acquaintances who last interacted over a week ago. There is a circle of chairs in the middle of the room, with Sue standing in the center, yelling at some contractor or another via cell phone.

 

“You think that’s hard?” she snarls. “Try passing a bowling ball through your vagina – that’s hard!” She snaps her phone closed with an impressive bang. Kurt is absolutely certain he doesn’t want to know the story behind that.

 

Fortunately, this is the point at which the other performers start to trickle in, so Kurt busies himself handing out scripts and introducing himself. Sam smiles at him broadly, when he comes in, and shoots him a “Thanks, man,” before heading over to join Blaine in the circle. Santana takes the script without comment and gives him a smile that Kurt is choosing to believe is only half-sarcastic. She sits next to her friend, the blonde dancer – Brittany? – who told him that she liked his outfit because it was “unicorn,” whatever that means. Santana’s smile softens startlingly in greeting, and their pinkies link together in the space between their chairs.

 

Maybe not so much friends, then.

 

Rachel strides over to try and start up a conversation with them, but must be rebuffed, because she tosses her hair and flounces to the other side of the circle.

 

There are a few other faces that Kurt recognizes from the table at Absinthe, but his memory of that night, or at least that part of the night, is tenuous at best. He smiles at them politely, and they do the same.

 

Soon enough, everyone is seated and ready, chattering as they wait for Sue to call them to order.

 

She pulls out a bullhorn and holds it up to her mouth.

 

“Welcome,” she yells. Everyone falls abruptly silent. Kurt nearly falls out of his chair. She surveys the room with a satisfied smile, lets the bullhorn drop to her side. “You all know why you’re here. You came to me with dreams, and I said I would make sure you saw them through. Well this is me, keeping up my end of the bargain.” There’s a cheer, here, from some of the dancers, but the rest seem to know better. Her smile goes grim.  “I’m betting a hell of a lot on all of you, so you had better hope you don’t let me down.”

 

Kurt, more than anyone, knows exactly what she’s bet. He forces himself not to look at Blaine.

 

“I expect nothing less than perfection. And I’m not morally against waterboarding.”

 

Rachel nudges him, mouth gaping in shock, but, well, it’s Sue. Kurt finds it a little disconcerting that he’s already willing to accept that as an excuse, but he keeps his eyes forward and shakes his head.

 

Sue goes on from there, jovial now that her threat has been registered. She introduces Kurt and Rachel, whose reception is fairly chilly from most and positively glacial from Santana, and runs down the cast list.

 

“I’m playing a freaking _sitar_?” interrupts Santana, disgusted.

 

“A magical sitar,” corrects Kurt. She shoots him a dirty look.

 

Sue clears her throat.

 

“Do you have a problem with that, Sandbags?”

 

Santana slumps back in her chair and doesn’t say a word.

 

Sue has cast herself as the maharani, which is less and less surprising the more Kurt thinks about it, but other than that, Kurt has very little to go on in judging her casting choices. He’s just anxious for the reading to get started, already. It’s always this weird mix of exciting and terrifying to hear his words come from somebody else’s mouth for the first time.

 

It goes almost shockingly well. Sue’s casting turns out to be right on, and everybody seems to warm up to Rachel after they’ve heard her read. They just need a little time to get used to the idea of strangers encroaching on their territory, Kurt decides. They’ll learn to accept her once they’ve heard her sing, he’s sure of it.

 

More than that, they seem to warm up to the script. They laugh in the right places, and smile, and he even hears a couple of sniffles during the sad parts. It works, and so much better than the old version – maybe because he’s been so full of inspiration this week, or because he’s started writing with Blaine’s voice sounding loud and clear in his head, it doesn’t matter, because whatever it is, it’s _working_. He can’t wait to hear them sing his songs, this talented cast he stumbled upon.

 

For once, he really does feel like everything’s coming up Kurt.

 

He meets Blaine at his apartment, after they’ve been dismissed. He tells Rachel they’re meeting to work on a few of his songs, which isn’t a lie so much as a simplification of the truth. They spend a lot more time making out on the couch than they do singing together.

 

One often leads to the other, in fact.

 

They develop a pattern, as rehearsals continue – they leave together when the excuse is plausible and meet at The Golden Elephant when it isn’t. Rachel doesn’t seem to notice anything off about Kurt’s comings and goings, at least not at first, lost as she still is in her preparations for the role. When she does finally think to ask, he has a stroke of genius and tells her that he’s been trying out online dating. She’s so delighted at this prospect that he has to start coming up with first-date horror stories to amuse her with when he comes home. Blaine helps him more often than not, drawing on his vast experience with sketchy guys to fill in the details.

 

They stay in, most nights, happy with the simple pleasures of talking and touching. They cook dinner together, as well, and listen to music, and always, always sing. It isn’t long before they discover a mutual love of snarking at trashy reality television, which is exponentially more enjoyable when curled up with Blaine on his couch. Blaine turns out to have a surprisingly acid tongue, and he always laughs at Kurt’s jokes. Even, Kurt suspects, when they’re not actually funny.

 

When they feel cooped up, they take turns choosing obscure restaurants in neighborhoods all over the city, never the same twice. Anywhere, really, but Chelsea. They rush for shows they’ve always meant to see and the ones they could see a million times and never get tired of, holding hands under the cover of dark. They go to Absinthe with Sam and Rachel and whoever else wants to come and make a game of singing to each other without telegraphing it to the others.

 

Sometimes they even sing together, and that’s the best – finally, Kurt has a duet partner. He’s not sure he could articulate just how much that means.

 

The secrecy isn’t ideal, but they’re making it work for them. They’re not letting it stop them from enjoying themselves, or each other. It can actually be kind of…thrilling.

 

There’s really only one thing they don’t do, and it’s not for fear of getting caught: despite the fact that they’ve been seeing each other for over a month, they’ve never spent the night together. They haven’t actually been intimate, yet, at all.

 

Kurt knows he’s being ridiculous, because they’re adults, and a month is a long time to date somebody before having sex, but he can’t help but be a little self-conscious in that area. He could count on one hand the number of partners he’s had, twice over, and it wouldn’t take much more than that to count each individual encounter. That, contrasted with Blaine’s…experience, is enough to make him shy away.

 

Blaine is being terribly patient about the whole thing. He never pushes – if anything, he’s more diligent about respecting Kurt’s boundaries than Kurt is himself. Kurt is grateful for that, but it does mean that the burden will be on him to bring it up.

 

It’ll have to be soon, too, because the desire he feels is almost too much to hold inside his body, sometimes. There are times when they’re on the couch and Blaine’s lips are moving over his throat, and he can feel Blaine’s heartbeat through the layers of cloth and skin and bone between them, or when his hands move to Blaine’s thighs, and the shift of muscle makes him run lightning hot, or even when Blaine pulls back and just looks at him in that way of his, and Kurt can just barely restrain himself from ripping off Blaine’s clothes and, just, getting him _closer_. That’s all he really wants –  Blaine’s body close to his, close as they can get without wrapping themselves in one skin, hollowing pleasure out of each other’s bodies until the only thing left is them.

 

He just – he doesn’t know how to _ask_ for that. It’s not _simple_ like it was with his previous boyfriends (insert tab A into slot B and voila – orgasm). He just needs to find the words.

 

In the meantime, another shadow has been encroaching on the idyll of their relationship, and this one is far less pleasant.

 

They’re about a week deep into the rehearsal process when Sebastian Smythe makes his first appearance at the studio.

 

Sue introduces him at the start of rehearsal as their “benefactor,” but it’s obvious at a glance that everyone knows what that means. Even Rachel. Sebastian himself makes no effort to hide the way he looks at Blaine, like Blaine is a prize thoroughbred and Sebastian has just made the winning bid. Or like he’s imagining his hands running all over Blaine’s body. Kurt isn’t sure which is worse.

 

No, the truly sickening part is the way Blaine looks back at him. It isn’t real, of course, but Blaine is nothing if not a convincing actor. He looks up at Sebastian through his eyelashes and ducks his head bashfully when he catches him looking back. Flustered, like he’s overwhelmed by Sebastian’s presence.

 

Kurt can’t watch it or he’ll give the game away.

 

Sebastian sits next to Sue the entire afternoon, eyes tracking Blaine as she yells out changes in blocking and gives performance notes in her blunt, Sue kind of way. He whispers the occasional comment to her, impossible to hear from Kurt’s seat on her other side, not that it stops Kurt from trying.

 

It feels wrong for Sebastian to be here. He’s sniffing around in something that’s personal to Kurt, something that isn’t _his_. And yet, Kurt knows that’s irrational, because it’s due to Sebastian’s money that they’re even able to do this at all, much less do it well. He has a right to check up on his investment. It kills him to do it, but Kurt makes himself smile at Sebastian and talk to him civilly, because he won’t be the one to ruin this.

 

It’s after rehearsal has wrapped that Kurt really starts to understand what’s going on.

 

He’s the last one left, having dawdled long enough to give Blaine a good head start and make sure no one’s around to see which direction Kurt takes when he leaves the building. He shuts off the lights, shuts the door behind him, and pauses.

 

He can hear lowered voices, echoing down the hall from the stairwell by the entrance. One of them is Blaine’s, he can tell right away. The other is harder to make out, but once he does…his blood runs cold.

 

Blaine can take care of himself, Kurt knows that, but he shouldn’t have to. Kurt starts down the hall, slowly, cautiously, and concentrates on listening until he can get close enough to see. He ducks down to hide in the long evening shadows and peeks around the corner, just enough to see without being seen.

 

Sebastian’s got him cornered, backed against the wall, with an arm stretched out and bracing against the wall beside his head. The other hand is tracing slowly over the muscles of Blaine’s torso. Blaine is breathing hard and fast, and Kurt’s heart clenches, because he can’t tell how much of it is an act.

 

“You _know_ we can’t,” he’s saying, breathy and flirtatious.

 

“Why not? If you want it, and I do – and you _know_ I do – why not give into it? Why wait, when we can have it now?”

 

Blaine gasps, and closes his eyes. Sebastian’s hand has gone out of sight, and his body closer, and Kurt clenches his fists so hard he’s in danger of cutting through the skin. He’s ready, the second Blaine gives him a sign that he’s in genuine distress.

 

“I’ve told you, Sebastian. Payment comes first. Those are the rules.”

 

It comes out teasing, like he’s outlining the rules of a game instead of a business deal.

 

“I never should have signed that damned contract,” mutters Sebastian.

 

“It’ll be worth it, I assure you.”

 

Sebastian reaches up to smooth back a strand of Blaine’s hair that’s curling at his temple.

 

“I know.”

 

“For now, though, I think we’d better call it a night.”

 

Blaine smiles regretfully, just on the cusp of coy. Sebastian stays where he is for a moment longer, staring at him, drinking him in, looking for all the world like he’s about to lean in for a kiss. He pushes off the wall, instead, and puts some space between them.

 

“Goodnight, Blaine.”

 

Kurt ducks into the drinking fountain alcove next to him, the best hiding spot he can find on short notice, and waits for Sebastian to push through the front door before emerging. Blaine is still where Sebastian left him, leaning against the wall with his head tipped back and his eyes tightly shut.

 

“Blaine?” he ventures.

 

Blaine’s eyes shoot open, startled. He relaxes when he sees who it is, and sighs in resignation.

 

“How much of that did you see?”

 

“Most of it, I think.” Kurt moves to stand in front of him, careful to keep a little more distance between them than Sebastian allowed. “Did he hurt you?”

 

He reaches out a hand and waits for Blaine to meet him. He does, smiling gratefully as he laces their fingers together.

 

“No. He was just being an asshole.”

 

“I was worried.”

 

“I can handle him.”

 

“I know. I just – he shouldn’t be touching you like that.”

 

“That’s my decision, isn’t it?”

 

“I just mean…you shouldn’t have to let him, Blaine. It’s – I hate seeing him treat you like that.”

 

Blaine softens. He brings Kurt’s hand up to his mouth and gives it a lingering kiss.

 

“I know. I promise, I’ll try not to see him in private until I have to.”

 

Kurt smiles, and tries not to think about opening night.

 

“Okay.”

 

But that’s only the start of it. By three weeks in, Sebastian has shown up to rehearsal exactly six times. He makes loud comments, sometimes, to the effect that the script is saccharine or overwrought, or that the choreography should be more acrobatic, but usually he just sits and watches and makes sure everyone knows that Blaine is his property.

 

It’s disgusting.

 

Despite Blaine’s best efforts, Sebastian keeps finding ways of pulling him aside. On the way back from the bathroom, out on a coffee run, making a phone call – it’s gotten to the point where Kurt kind of wants to accompany Blaine whenever he leaves the room, except that he knows how Blaine would react to even that suggestion.

 

Kurt doesn’t usually witness these encounters, and he’s sure that Blaine is minimizing them, but it doesn’t sound like Sebastian is hurting him, at least. It’s mostly just continued attempts to coerce him into bed, with bonus skeevy touching.

 

Kurt knows that Blaine has to do what he does, inviting the advances even while turning them down, but that doesn’t make him like it any better. There’s no rule that says he can’t hate sitting by and doing nothing while his boyfriend lets himself be sexually harassed by a guy who thinks it’s his right. Blaine is always calm about it, always acts like Kurt is overreacting if he expresses even the smallest amount of dismay, but Kurt can tell that it bothers him, too.

 

Kurt just wishes he didn’t feel so…trapped.

 

It’s not one week later that things start to take a turn.

 

It’s been an entirely Sebastian-free week, the first since he started showing his rodent face, so Kurt is in a particularly good mood that day. He ends up skipping rehearsal in favor of working on song revisions and decides, on a whim, to surprise Blaine with a romantic dinner for two, complete with a half-tongue-in-cheek playlist of his favorite sappy love songs.

 

He lets himself into the apartment with the key Blaine presented him just last weekend and bustles about until everything, from the salmon to the mood lighting to the centerpiece of red and yellow roses, is up to his standards. He manages to have it all ready and waiting by the time Blaine texts him to say he’s left rehearsal.

 

The look on his face when he walks in the front door makes every last bit of effort completely worth it.

 

“Kurt, I can’t believe you did this,” he says, genuinely awed. He sets his satchel carefully aside and pulls Kurt in for a tight, grateful squeeze. “It looks wonderful.” If his voice is maybe a little choked up, Kurt doesn’t point it out. Maybe because of the lump it brings to his own throat.

 

“Well, I had to do something with all that free time.”

 

Blaine sighs happily against his neck.

 

“I’m crazy about you.”

 

Kurt hums his response around a smile that’s grown out of his control. He knows Blaine can feel it.

 

“How was rehearsal?” he asks, once they’ve pulled themselves together and pulled apart enough to look each other in the eye.

 

Blaine looks away. Not a good sign.

 

“Oh, fine. We worked on the Act 1 finale most of the day – Sue keeps changing her mind about the choreography.”

 

“What? I thought she locked it in last week.”

 

“Yeah, well, you know Sue. She decided it was sloppy.”

 

“At least there are no flamethrowers involved, right?”

 

“Not yet. I mean, we do have almost two months left.”

 

“Oh, God. There’ll be live elephants on stage by the end, won’t there?”

 

Blaine laughs, eyes crinkling in the corners, but he sobers quickly. He looks away again. Kurt is itching to ask, but he’s learning that, with Blaine, it’s sometimes best just to wait. Blaine clears his throat.

 

“Um. Sebastian stopped by.”

 

“Oh.” Kurt has to fight to keep his face and his voice neutral as his stomach sours. “Are you okay?”

 

“Of course. It was nothing, he just invited me to dinner.”

 

Kurt’s eyebrows shoot up. This is new.

 

“That’s…”

 

“Weird, I know.”

 

“What did you say?”

 

“No, obviously. I’m here, aren’t I?”

 

“He wasn’t…angry?”

 

“Of course not. It’s all part of the game. He knows he can’t have me – he knows I have to say no. As long as he thinks I _want_ to say yes, that’s enough.”

 

Despite his careful nonchalance, Kurt can tell it’s making him uncomfortable to talk about this. He swallows down his concerns – _will it_ always _be enough?_ – and makes an attempt at a soothing smile. He rubs lightly at Blaine’s shoulders, which are so full of tension he winces at the contact.

 

“Why don’t you go take a nice, hot shower? I’ll keep dinner warm for us while you get clean.”

 

Blaine smiles at him gratefully.

 

“Okay.”

 

He leans in to press a quick kiss to Kurt’s mouth before heading back to the bathroom.

 

When he comes out, he’s changed into a t-shirt and loose jeans, probably the most casual that Kurt’s ever seen him outside of dance rehearsal. His hair is still damp, and Kurt can tell that he’s foregone product by the wild way that it curls. It makes him look…young, and open.

 

Dinner is entirely lovely, just as Kurt imagined. Music plays softly in the background, and the candlelight does wonderful, warm things to Blaine’s expressive eyes. Their conversation is as easy as it always is, punctuated by the play of their fingers over the tabletop. The air between them grows slowly thicker and heavier, so much so that Kurt is almost struggling to take it in, by the end. Or maybe it’s just the pounding of his heart that’s making it hard to breathe.

 

Either way, Kurt knows. This is it. Tonight is the night, and he couldn’t be more ready.

 

They end up on the couch as soon as the dishes are drying in the rack, wine forgotten on the kitchen counter in their urgency. Etta James is playing over the stereo, romantic and easy, but it’s the beat of their own blood that drives them. Blaine has slid to his back, clutching at Kurt and arching up into him as their mouths move together. There’s nothing skillful about it, just lips and tongues trying to get as close as they can as their bodies find ways to fit together.

 

Blaine’s shirt is rucked up in the front, exposing his abdomen to Kurt’s roving hand, and his own has come un-tucked at the insistent tug of Blaine’s fingers at his back. It’s the closest they’ve ever come to undressing each other.

 

Blaine gasps against his mouth at a particularly sweet-hot drag of their bodies together, and Kurt feels the need in him go frantic. He pulls away, just enough to talk, and he tries to catch his breath. Blaine’s lips are parted and plumped, and his pupils are blown wide. Kurt’s body is _whining_ for him, all over.

 

This isn’t how he envisioned starting this conversation, but maybe it will be better. Less talking, more doing. That sounds pretty awesome right about now.

 

“I want to,” he breathes. “I’m ready. Tonight.”

 

He feels pulled taut as a wire, waiting for Blaine to respond. It’s like resisting a magnetic pull, to stay hovering above him when all he wants is to connect.

 

But Blaine’s breath is shaky, and his eyes brighter than they should be, and he’s blinking rapidly against emotions that Kurt can practically see at war within his body.

 

He doesn’t look like someone who’s been waiting for five weeks to get the green light for sex.

 

Kurt brings a hand up to Blaine’s face, strokes his cheek. His skin is hot to the touch.

 

“Blaine. Sweetie, what is it?” Blaine breathes in deep, as if to speak, but nothing comes out. He shakes his head, eyes still so wide. “Come on, Blaine, talk to me. You’re starting to scare me.”

 

Blaine closes his eyes.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, roughly. “I don’t know what’s – I’m just a little…overwhelmed.”

 

“It’s okay. Just breathe. I’m here, Blaine, you can just breathe.”

 

The room is quiet, for a moment, but for the slow drag of air in and out of their lungs and the soft starting notes of “In Your Eyes” over the speakers.

 

“I love this song,” murmurs Blaine, eyes still closed and a hint of a smile touching his lips.

 

“Me too,” whispers Kurt. He traces his thumb over the delicate skin of Blaine’s left eyelid. Blaine’s smile grows, and he opens his eyes.

 

 _All my instincts, they return_  
And the grand façade so soon will burn  
Without a noise, without my pride  
I reach out from the inside…

 

“I want to, Kurt. I want you. It’s just…I’ve never done this before. Without getting paid for it, I mean. I – I don’t know what I’m doing.”

 

Oh, God.

 

Kurt’s heart lurches, because he didn’t even consider…and Blaine is so _precious_ to him, and he’s so scared of baring the hurts he keeps tucked away, safe from his own vulnerable heart – and he’s looking at Kurt, now, with every ounce of trust he has, exposed in his big, brave eyes.

 

It touches something bruise-tender within.

 

_I want to touch the light,_

_The heat I see in your eyes…_

 

“We’ll figure it out together,” he whispers.

 

Blaine breathes in, and he nods, and Kurt gives in to his body.

 

They cling to each other with every fiber, once they’re down to skin, until they’re woven so tightly that the space between them has ceased to exist. Kurt’s world narrows in to the give and take of Blaine’s mouth, the friction of his hard-soft warmth, and the startled sounds of his pleasure. He stops trying to contain the wildfire rushing beneath his skin, lets it scorch out through his pores until they’re both raging with it.

 

“I love you,” he gasps into the skin of Blaine’s throat, when he can’t hold it back any longer. Blaine lets out a keening noise and clutches into Kurt’s shoulder blades hard enough to leave a mark. Kurt can feel his pulse thump through his palm.

 

“I love you, too,” whispers Blaine.

 

_Oh, I want to be that complete…_


	5. The Lovers Are Discovered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music in this chapter: "Come What May"

**Chapter 5: The Lovers Are Discovered**

 

Rachel is on top of him the second he walks through the door the next day.

 

“And where exactly have you been, Kurt Hummel?”

 

She’s got her hands planted on her hips in a way that completely fails to be intimidating, considering that her hair is in twin braids and she’s wearing her favorite Snoopy slippers.

 

“I don’t suppose you’ll buy the early morning coffee run excuse?”

 

“Not unless you brought some back for me. Come on, Kurt, there’s nothing wrong with a good, old-fashioned walk of shame. I won’t even make fun of your hair if you spill the details.”

 

Kurt reaches up, reflexively, and is dismayed once again to feel the droop of his poor, wilting bangs. He sighs. He and Blaine talked about it not an hour ago, but he still isn’t looking forward to this conversation.

 

“Coffee first.”

 

Rachel practically squeals at what she must perceive as her victory and busies herself with the coffeemaker. Kurt takes advantage of her distraction to go behind his privacy curtains and change into an outfit more appropriate for apartment-lounging. By the time he comes back out, Rachel has set up a tray complete with two mugs of coffee, cream and sugar on the side, and two perfectly-browned slices of toast. She clears a space for it on the coffee table and turns to him with a grin.

 

He slumps into his designated corner of the couch and leans forward to doctor his coffee the way he likes it.

 

“Well?” she demands impatiently, once he’s taken his first sip.

 

“It’s a little strong.”

 

“Kurt!”

 

“Okay, fine. What do you want to know?”

 

“Well, let’s start with ‘who,’ shall we?”

 

“You have to promise me first that you won’t tell anybody. I mean it – not your dads, not Finn, and especially nobody at The Moulin Rouge. Okay?”

 

Eyes wide to telegraph her utter sincerity, Rachel nods and holds out her pinky. Kurt huffs out a laugh and hooks his own pinky through hers.

 

“I promise.”

 

“Okay.” He pauses. This is the point of no return. “It’s Blaine.”

 

Rachel blinks once. Twice.

 

“Wait, what? _Blaine_ Blaine? Our Blaine? The one who…” She grabs at Kurt’s elbow. “Kurt, you know about Sebastian, right?”

 

He rolls his eyes and shakes her gently off.

 

“Of course I do.”

 

“And you’re…okay with it?”

 

“I don’t love it, but there’s not much I can do, is there?”

 

Rachel watches him a moment, like she’s biting her tongue, for once. She smiles at him tentatively.

 

“How long have you been seeing each other?”

 

“Since the beginning – about five weeks, now. I was lying to you about all those blind dates.”

 

“Kurt! I can’t believe you didn’t – why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

 

“We haven’t told _anyone_ yet. The fewer people know about this, the less likely it will get back to Sebastian. Which is why you can’t act any differently around either of us, and you definitely can’t say anything to anybody.”

 

“I won’t, I swear. Just – why now?”

 

“Well, I figured you’d start asking questions if I started doing the ‘walk of shame,’ as you so delicately put it, on a regular basis.”

 

“Oh,” she says knowingly. She bites her lip against a sly smile. “Was it wonderful? He’s a really good kisser, so I can only imagine – ”

 

“No, no, no, definitely _no_. I am not discussing this with you. Not happening.”

 

Her expression softens.

 

“Do you love him?”

 

Kurt can’t look at her when he says this. It’s hard enough to get it around the lump in his throat.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Oh, Kurt, I’m so happy for you!”

 

She flings herself at him without warning, throwing her arms around his neck for a tight, happy hug. He hears her sniffle by his ear and squeezes back. She pulls away after a long moment, blinking the tears out of her eyes, mouth stretched wide in Kurt’s favorite of her grins.

 

“You know,” she says thoughtfully, “I’ve always thought there were sparks between you. I just figured you’d _tell me_ if anything happened.”

 

“I wanted to. Really, I did. I hate lying to you.”

 

“I know.”

 

They share a smile.

 

“Have you told your dad?”

 

“I told him I was seeing someone, but I’ve been avoiding the details. I think he’s starting to suspect that I’m making the whole thing up.”

 

“Well, vague is probably better anyway, considering. I can’t imagine that Blaine’s, um, history would go over well.”

 

Something about her tone sends Kurt bristling.

 

“I’m not ashamed of him, if that’s what you’re trying to imply. I _would_ tell my father, if the circumstances were different. It’s killing me not to.”

 

“Kurt, he lives 600 miles away.”

 

“Yeah, but he’ll tell Carole, because I couldn’t ask him to lie to her, and then what if Finn overhears them talking about it? He can’t keep a secret to save his life, and we’re not exactly the only people he knows in New York. I know you think I sound paranoid, but this isn’t something I’m willing to risk.”

 

She nods, expression gone serious.

 

“You have a point. Thank you for trusting me, Kurt.”

 

“Well, it’s your career on the line, too.”

 

She smiles, so he knows she understands.

 

They spend the rest of the morning together, like they haven’t for a long time, just laughing and teasing and enjoying each other’s company until it’s time to get ready for rehearsal.

 

It’s nice to have an ally, again. He has a feeling he’ll need one if he’s going to survive the coming months.

 

Rachel’s really grown into herself as an actress, so it shouldn’t be as much of a surprise as it is that she’s able to keep her cool when she sees Blaine that afternoon. Kurt is relieved to see it, and he can tell Blaine is, too.

 

Honestly, Kurt himself is more of a danger to their secret than she is, at this point. He’s so moony over Blaine that he’s shocked when no one calls him out on it. Thank God Sebastian doesn’t make an appearance, because Kurt is sure he knows exactly how badly that would go.

 

They spend the weekend holed up in Blaine’s apartment, living off of take-out and each other. Kurt has _never_ felt this way, so, just, hungry for another person. He feels like a vampire. And not the sparkly kind, either, but the horror-movie monsters that give him nightmares, the ones that bite your neck and suck your blood until you run dry. He finds himself almost wishing he could be one, sometimes, when the need to be close is so strong it’s not enough to be buried deep and attached at the mouth – he wants everything from Blaine, _wants_ to suck him dry, and wants to bleed himself out in return.

 

It’s overwhelming, and scary, but Blaine is so safe. The way he looks at Kurt, and listens to him, and lets him in. He’s _everything_.

 

When they’re not having sex all over the apartment, Kurt feels like he’s entered domestic heaven. He pulls on Blaine’s clothes, which don’t fit him quite right but smell so amazing that it doesn’t bother him, uses Blaine’s skin-care products, gets served breakfast in bed and ignores it in favor of pulling Blaine back down into the sheets. The food is cold when they get to it, but that’s nothing a microwave can’t fix. He lets Blaine play with his hair while they marathon _Project Runway_ , and Blaine lets him bury his toes beneath Blaine’s thigh while he jots down the lyrics to a song that just won’t wait to be written.

 

Kurt spends a great deal of time learning Blaine’s body. The way it moves, yes, and especially the way it moves with his, but also the specific shape of it, the curves and dips and secret soft places. He gets to know the birthmark at the base of Blaine’s neck and the long, thin scar just under his ribs. He asks about it, once, tracing a finger over its elegant, silvery curve, but Blaine will only tell him that it happened during a “bad experience” with a client when he was 16. Kurt wants to press for more, but he listens to the tense set of Blaine’s muscles and contents himself to rest his head against Blaine’s chest and let the past stay where it is.

 

He learns to read it, too, when Blaine goes quiet but for the hitch of his breath and won’t tell Kurt what his body needs.

 

Kurt expected – in fact, imagined – that Blaine would be something of a talker in bed, but the opposite is actually true. He doesn’t notice right away, because the soft noises Blaine does make are so much hotter than any porn star’s loudest moans. But then, well…there comes a time when a guy would like a little direction.

 

He asks about it once, when the cover of dark is on them and their fingers are skimming over each other’s skin.

 

Blaine stills. He blinks, and Kurt can feel the brush of his lashes against his chest. He curls his arm around Blaine just that much tighter.

 

“It was never about what I wanted,” says Blaine, flatly. “Before you, I mean. I don’t know – I just…I don’t want it to be a performance with you.”

 

Kurt leans down to kiss the top of his head.

 

“What you want will always matter to me.”

 

Blaine doesn’t say anything to that, just slides up until he’s holding Kurt’s face in his hands and kissing him so tenderly that Kurt feels he might just melt away.

 

Kurt learns to ask, and he learns to read the answers, and Blaine starts to find his voice.

 

The weekend, like all things, must end sooner or later. Monday comes and, with it, the outside world and their separate apartments. Kurt would spend the night at Blaine’s every night, would, in fact, move in if Blaine asked him, but he knows they can’t risk it. It would only be so long before the cast started to notice. So, they spend evenings together, and weekends, and Kurt is so in love he could burst with it.

 

Blaine ends up telling Sam about their relationship before long, due to the best friend precedent and the distinct advantage of having another trustworthy ally at the studio to help confirm alibis and create diversions. Blaine is relieved that he can stop lying to Sam about mysterious “plans” whenever he wants to bring over his _Star Wars_ DVDs for a marathon or hit the gym with his work-out buddy.

 

Kurt feels bad about monopolizing Blaine, but not enough to stop doing it. Sam’s had him all this time, after all, and the clock is ticking on them every day – Kurt is under no delusions that it will be easy to get time alone together once the contract kicks in. Sam understands their predicament, but he firmly subscribes to the “bros before hos” philosophy of interpersonal relationships and tells Blaine in no uncertain terms that he has to stop blowing him off. It sounds more like a lovers’ quarrel than Kurt is entirely comfortable with, but Blaine ends up caving in pretty quickly. He sets up a weekly dinner for the three of them and Rachel and carves out some weekend time for best friend bonding.

 

The four of them are something of an odd mix. Sam is just the kind of guy that Finn would have hung out with in high school, minus the whole “White Chocolate” part of things and a whole host of nerdy tendencies that have Rachel silently judging him. Kurt, too, a little, despite knowing that he has no room to judge when it comes to strange obsessions. He knows that having a photographic memory for every Vogue cover from the past five years or being able to recite the dialogue from every episode of the seventh season of _The Facts of Life_ would probably seem just as bizarre to Sam as being fluent in two dialects of Elvish seems to Kurt. It’s just that Kurt knows better than to air those particular skills in mixed company.

 

It turns out to be incredibly amusing to watch Sam and Rachel try to figure out what to make of each other, now that they’re spending so much time together in close quarters. It’s like watching a parakeet and a golden retriever whose owners have locked them in a room together. They circle each other, curious but completely incapable of understanding how the other’s mind works. And yet, somehow, Rachel’s brand of overbearing intensity and Sam’s easy-going affability work to balance each other out.

 

Kurt also enjoys having the opportunity to watch Blaine interact with Sam. There are a lot of reasons, but chief among them is Blaine’s tendency to start imitating Sam’s fratboy-style vernacular. He starts saying things like “bro” and “dude,” and it’s kind of hilarious in contrast with his neatly gelled hair and the precise way his body moves through space, but also strangely…hot. It’s kind of a thing for Kurt, as it turns out.

 

He’s also…not a _different_ person, exactly, but there’s a side of him that comes out around Sam that he doesn’t tend to show when it’s just the two of them. He’s just as passionate about _The Avengers_ as he is about _Les Mis_ , just as happy to talk football as he is fashion. There’s history there between them, too, and it shows in the easy way they finish each other’s sentences and the casual affection they show with their bodies.

 

“Did you two ever…?” he finds himself asking one night, after Rachel and Sam have left and his body is slumped into Blaine’s on the couch. He’s not sure what answer he’s looking for, or what he’s expecting, but he finds he needs to know.

 

There’s silence for a moment, but Blaine’s hand never stops stroking lazily over Kurt’s bicep. Kurt takes that as a good sign.

 

“For work,” says Blaine, finally. “A couple of times. But he’s really, really straight, and he’s like my brother, so there’s no need to worry.”

 

Kurt nods, satisfied.

 

“That must have been awkward.”

 

“You have no idea.”

 

Kurt chuckles.

 

“Did you ever…have feelings for him?”

 

“I might have, if I’d let myself,” he says carefully.

 

Kurt looks up at him and smiles, hand rubbing up and down his chest in what he hopes is a soothing fashion.

 

“I had an epic crush on Finn, my sophomore year of high school,” he admits.

 

“Your _step-brother_ Finn?”

 

“Yes, my step-brother Finn. It was actually due to my crazy, hormonal attempts to get closer to him that our parents met in the first place.”

 

Blaine chuckles.

 

“Wow, that’s…”

 

“Embarrassing? Horrifying? Creepy?”

 

“I was going to say ‘adorable,’ actually.”

 

Kurt snorts.

 

“It turned out for the best, anyway. He’s actually a pretty great brother, but he would have been a terrible boyfriend.”

 

“Weren’t he and Rachel engaged at one point?”

 

“That’s how I know.”

 

Blaine buries his face in Kurt’s hair to muffle his laughter, but Kurt can feel it lurching beneath his ribs. Blaine presses a kiss to the top of Kurt’s head and rests his cheek against it.

 

“Did you ever date in high school?” he asks.

 

“Well, sort of. If you count one date as ‘dating.’”

 

“Was there a kiss goodnight?”

 

“Yes. A very dry, awkward kiss.”

 

“It counts.”

 

“It was a guy I met while browsing for sheet music. He complimented my outfit, so I gave him my number, and we started texting. I thought I was in love for about three days, until we actually spent more than five minutes in each other’s company. What about you?”

 

Blaine stills, and Kurt could kick himself, once his brain catches up with his mouth.

 

“You don’t have to answer that,” he says quickly, craning his neck so he can look Blaine in the eye. “I wasn’t thinking.”

 

“It’s okay. I don’t mind talking about it.”

 

“If you’re sure.”

 

“I’m sure.” He breathes in, deep, and holds it a second before letting it out. When he speaks again, his voice is soft. “When I was a freshman, they had this Sadie Hawkins dance. I asked a friend, the only other out guy in the school, and we ended up going together. I didn’t tell my parents – I wasn’t out to them, and didn’t plan on changing that anytime soon. I had a feeling they wouldn’t react…well. Anyway, while we were waiting for his dad to pick us up, these three guys…beat the living crap out of us.”

 

“Oh, God.” Kurt’s heart twists at the thought of 15-year-old Blaine, crumpled on the pavement in the yellow light of the streetlamps. He blinks to clear the sudden sting of tears in his eyes.

 

“My parents found out about the whole thing, of course, and they were horrified for all the wrong reasons. They ended up sending me to Dalton in the hopes that I would ‘straighten out’ if I had a fresh start and some discipline. They figured I’d learned my lesson, after what happened.”

 

“Isn’t Dalton the one with the zero-tolerance bullying policy?”

 

“How did you know that?”

 

“I may have considered transferring, briefly.” Blaine tilts his head so that Kurt can see his raised eyebrows. “It can’t be surprising to you that I wasn’t Mr. Popular in high school. And my school’s bullying policy was more along the lines of stick-your-head-in-the-sand-and-hope-it-goes-away.”

 

“I’m familiar.”

 

“I ended up home-schooling for a couple months, when it got really bad. I was never…hurt, not like you, but there was this guy… He was the worst of them, really made it his mission to make my life hell. I snapped one day – ” _Nobody pushes the Hummels around_ “ – and followed him into the bathroom, and…he kissed me.”

 

“ _What_?”

 

“He was closeted, and scared, and he, um – he threatened to kill me if I told anyone. I never did.”

 

“God, Kurt, I can’t even…”

 

His arm tightens around Kurt’s shoulders, like he wants to protect him from something that happened more than six years ago. Kurt wants to say _Yes, you can, of course you can, because you feel it, too, every time Sebastian touches you_. He doesn’t, of course.

 

“It turned out fine, in the end. My friends started an anti-bullying club and somehow got him to join – I suspect blackmail – and he never bothered me again, after I came back.”

 

“Wow. That’s…pretty amazing, actually.”

 

“I’m sorry, I hijacked your story. You were telling me about Dalton.”

 

“Right. So, I was really happy there, for a while. I had friends, I sang with the glee club. It was…nice. And then I met Jeremiah. He was an assistant manager at the Gap, and he was sweet to me. We went out for coffee a couple of times, and he kissed me on the cheek, so of course I was completely smitten. I was in the middle of planning this big, elaborate Valentine’s Day declaration of my feelings when my parents found our text history on my phone. I was out of the house within the hour.”

 

“You never told him how you felt?”

 

Blaine snorts.

 

“No, and I’m glad I didn’t. I was a dumb kid with stars in my eyes. I’m sure he would have laughed in my face – _I’d_ laugh in my face.”

 

“No, you wouldn’t. And I’m sure he wouldn’t have either. He’d have been flattered, at the very least.”

 

Blaine sighs, and presses another kiss into Kurt’s hair.

 

“I wish I’d known you.”

 

“Me, too,” Kurt whispers. His hand clenches into the muscle and bone of Blaine’s chest, an almost reflexive need to feel him strong and solid beneath his fingers. He needs to chase away the image he’s conjured of Blaine, young and scared and utterly without options, letting some pervert feel him up in an alley. Blaine, who’d never even been _kissed_.

 

He leans up and kisses him now, and tries to transmit every bit of love in his body through the touch of their lips. He shifts and climbs until he’s straddling Blaine’s hips and can slide both hands into his hair. He loves that feeling, of breaking up the gel between his fingers and cradling the weight of Blaine’s skull. Blaine has one hand spread wide across his back and one at his thigh, keeping him pulled close and safe and giving back everything that he gets.

 

Kurt ends up with a hickey, the next day. It’s the first time this has happened, shockingly enough, given Blaine’s enthusiasm for his neck. He wears a high-necked button-up and a summer scarf, but Santana seems to have a sixth sense for these sorts of things. She smirks at him pointedly as soon as he walks into the studio. She doesn’t say anything, thank God, beyond a murmured “Wanky” as he passes by. Santana is the last person he wants sniffing around his personal life. He can almost see the mayhem in her eyes sometimes, when Sebastian shows up or Rachel is being particularly…Rachel. She could ruin everything, and it wouldn’t be more than a whim to her.

 

Sebastian has been showing up less frequently as of late, which Kurt can’t be unhappy about, but there’s something almost…impatient about him, now, when he looks at Blaine. Blaine, of course, says there’s nothing to worry about, but Kurt can’t help but feel that it doesn’t bode well.

 

He happens upon them one night, as he’s leaving the studio to meet Blaine for dinner. Sebastian left hours ago, and Blaine only minutes, just enough time to give him a head start. They’re in that stairwell again, the one that Sebastian must believe gives them privacy, but the scene couldn’t be more different.

 

The only contact between them is Blaine’s wrist in Sebastian’s hand. Sebastian is on the stair below, leveling out their eyeline. The slightest bit of unease is showing through Blaine’s expression, in the angle of his furrowed brow. Kurt doesn’t know if Sebastian can see it, but it’s clear as day to him.

 

“I’m not expecting anything in return,” Sebastian is saying, urgent and almost pleading. “Not tonight. I just want to spend time with you.”

 

Blaine pauses, considering his words.

 

“That’s…what I want, too. You know it is. But I’ve told you already, I can’t tonight.”

 

“What, another rehearsal with gayface Hummel?”

 

He’s smirking, it’s obvious even from the back, and Blaine snickers softly in reply. Kurt knows it’s an act, knows Blaine is seething inside, but it still hurts to hear.

 

“I need it, Sebastian. I need to be perfect.”

 

“You will be.” He reaches up with the other hand and caresses Blaine’s cheek, a softness in his touch that makes Kurt’s stomach curdle. Blaine’s eyelids flutter closed, splaying his lashes against his cheeks. “This is only the beginning for you, you know that? I’d buy a million shows for you if you asked, and I’d be sitting front and center on opening night every time.”

 

Blaine smiles, but Kurt knows the difference, and he knows how tense it is. Blaine opens his eyes.

 

“Rain check?” he says, softly.

 

Sebastian sighs, and drops his hand.

 

“I’ll hold you to that.”

 

He squeezes Blaine’s wrist and drops that, too, before turning to go. Kurt ducks into the alcove, just in time.

 

He goes to Blaine, once the coast is clear, and lets him slump into his arms, head tucking neatly into Kurt’s shoulder.

 

“Let’s go home,” mumbles Blaine. Kurt rubs his back and shoves his flaring concerns into the box labeled “Sebastian” at the back of his mind. It won’t do either of them any good to take them out now.

 

He’s successfully forgotten them, in fact, by the time they’ve finished dinner (spaghetti with Kurt’s special marinara, followed by cheesecake from Blaine’s favorite bakery). They’re about to retire to the couch for an evening of comfort television when Kurt gets a call from Rachel.

 

“Yes?” he answers, impatient. Rachel usually texts.

 

“Kurt! You and Blaine have to come out with me tonight.”

 

“We already have plans.”

 

“Well, change them! I’ve decided I’m going dancing tonight, and I need my best gays with me to chase away the sketchy guys and make sure I don’t get roofied.”

 

“Wait, what? You’ve never been clubbing in your life, Rachel Berry.” Blaine looks at him quizzically. Kurt covers the mouthpiece and explains, “She wants us to go out with her.”

 

Blaine nods his understanding. Kurt puts her on speakerphone.

 

“I know! I just feel like I need to let loose, you know? I’ve been so wound up trying to get the steps right, I’m not really _dancing_.”

 

“You shouldn’t let Sue get to you,” says Blaine, moving closer so he can be heard. “She thrives on intimidation. You just need to forget about her and learn the choreography at your own pace.”

 

“We only have _five weeks_ left, Blaine. I should _have_ it by now.”

 

“I bet you know it better than you think you do. And I’m sure Brittany would be more than happy to help if you asked.”

 

Rachel mumbles something unintelligible here, but Kurt thinks he might catch the word “Santana.”

 

Blaine turns to Kurt, brow furrowed, and lowers his voice.

 

“Maybe she’s right. She does kind of need to loosen up.”

 

“See, Kurt? Blaine doesn’t think it’s a crazy idea.”

 

Kurt ignores that in favor of asking Blaine, “Do you _want_ to go?”

 

“It might be fun.”

 

“Watching a bunch of drunk, sweaty people grind on the dance floor is fun?”

 

“Well, no. _Being_ one of the drunk, sweaty people might be. If you have the right dance partner to grind with.”

 

He grins flirtatiously, and Kurt can’t help but smile back, even as he’s rolling his eyes.

 

“Okay, fine. But we’re leaving as soon as Rachel gets her groove back.”

 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you! Oh, you won’t regret this, we’re going to have so much fun!”

 

Kurt deeply doubts that he will. This, like most New York experiences, will probably be much less like _Sex and the City_ than Rachel is imagining.

 

But Blaine will be there, and it will be dark, so they won’t have to worry about being seen. They can dance together without maintaining a friend-sized personal space bubble. That part might be nice.

 

Rachel texts them the details, and they spend the better part of the next hour getting themselves ready to go. Kurt isn’t really sure what appropriate club wear looks like, beyond extremely tight, and his options are limited to the minimal wardrobe of things he’s left at Blaine’s and never bothered to take home. He ends up finding a t-shirt of Blaine’s that’s actually flattering on him and pairs it with his own jeans and the boots he wore to rehearsal. Blaine has an entire closet to choose from, but ends up dressing much the same, in a polo that stretches tight across the shoulders and Kurt’s favorite of his black skinny jeans. Kurt re-coifs his wilting hair, and Blaine neatens his own, and it manages to be more fun than annoying to share mirror space while they do it. Blaine even helps him spray the back parts of his head that are hard to reach.

 

The club is called The Red Room, and it lives up to its name. The lighting is a shifting kaleidoscope of reds and pinks and maroons, playing over the crowded dance floor like an out-of-season Valentine. Rachel is dressed in what Kurt used to privately call her sad-clown hooker clothes, reminiscent of the sabotage makeover he gave her in high school and even more of the real one he orchestrated their first year in New York. The look suits her better now than it ever did, but it still makes her look like she’s trying too hard. She’s grown into herself, but she’s never outgrown the impulse to patch up her confidence with eyeliner and cleavage.

 

They start off at the bar, so that Rachel can shake off her inhibitions and Kurt can survey the scene for a while before diving in. The crowd is on the younger side, with mixed-sex and same-sex couples dancing side by side. Kurt takes a moment to appreciate the fact that Rachel must have done her research. She knows that Ohio left some scars on him that haven’t yet faded.

 

The music is significantly better than Kurt feared, mostly popular dance music interspersed with the occasional pop re-mix. Blaine’s body is already moving unconsciously along to the beat, so Kurt knows it won’t be long before he’s being dragged off to dance. He waits until Rachel has finished her cosmo and set her sights on a willing dance partner and grabs Blaine by the hand.

 

“You know you want to,” he says with a teasing smile.

 

Blaine beams at him.

 

“Lead the way.”

 

They start off silly, with shimmies and twirls and lots of laughter, but soon enough they’re giving in to the press of bodies around them and the high of music pounding through their bones. They intertwine themselves, slowly but surely, until there’s really no room to do anything more than sway into each other. Kurt finds himself sinking into something that feels like a trance. He loses track of how many songs they dance through, loses track of everything but the beat and the heat and the feel of Blaine’s body moving with his. He starts when he feels Blaine lean up to yell in his ear, lips brushing pleasantly against his skin.

 

“Do you think we should check on Rachel?”

 

Oh, right. Rachel. The whole reason they’re here at all. They head back to the bar and order drinks while they scan the crowd. It doesn’t take long for Kurt to spot her, dirty dancing with a fairly non-sketchy guy who’s keeping his hands above her waist. He turns back to Blaine.

 

“She’s good, for now.”

 

“Hey guys,” he hears, the last voice he was expecting. He feels his hackles rise.

 

Blaine freezes, then turns around with a sweet, surprised smile at his lips.

 

“Sebastian!”

 

If Kurt were a cat, he’s sure he’d be hissing. He kind of wants to, as it is.

 

“What a coincidence. I was just sitting at the bar, checking out this guy, when I realized – hey, I know that…” His eyes travel down Blaine’s body, linger on his ass “…hair.”

 

Blaine ducks his head and bites down a smile. Sebastian smirks, satisfied. He glances at Kurt and his expression shifts, goes harder.

 

“Hummel.”

 

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” says Kurt mildly. “It doesn’t really seem like your scene.”

 

“It wasn’t, until now.” He reaches out, runs a hand down Blaine’s back. “Finished with rehearsal, I take it?”

 

Blaine smiles up at him, leaning subtly into his touch.

 

“Thank you for understanding, about tonight.”

 

“Dance with me and we’ll call it even.”

 

Kurt can see the slip of Blaine’s expression, as his eyes dart to Kurt and back. Sebastian sees it too. His eyes narrow.

 

“I can’t, yet,” says Blaine, quickly. “I promised Kurt I would help him find somebody for the night.”

 

Sebastian snorts, unkindly.

 

“I’m sure he can manage without his wingman for one song.”

 

“I promised, Sebastian. I can’t just abandon him.”

 

“Yeah, well you promised me something, too.” His voice has gone cold, his body close and threatening. Blaine’s gaze stays steady, even as Kurt fights off the urge to shove Sebastian away.

 

“You’ll get it.”

 

He reaches up and strokes his hand down Sebastian’s arm, from shoulder to fingertips, lingering over his bicep and tickling at his palm. Sebastian stares. His nostrils flare. His voice is softer when he says, “I’m getting impatient.”

 

“I know.”

 

Blaine smiles, lips tweaking up slyly in the corners. Sebastian echoes it.

 

He leans in close and says, loud enough for Kurt to hear, “Come find me when you’ve gotten rid of Betty White.”

 

It’s obviously supposed to be an insult, which is completely ridiculous, but Blaine just smiles and nods. Sebastian melts into the crowd without another glance in Kurt’s direction.

 

Blaine closes his eyes, and when he opens them, Kurt can see just how scared he really is.

 

“Let’s go find Rachel and get out of here,” he says, but Blaine stops him before he can move away.

 

“No. I should stay and dance with him.”

 

Kurt gapes.

 

“That’s – Blaine, what was the point of all that if you’re just going to give in to him anyway?”

 

“It’s a game, Kurt. We have to play.”

 

“You know exactly what that dance will be like, Blaine. I seriously doubt there will be any actual dancing involved.”

 

“I can handle myself, Kurt. I know what I’m doing.”

 

 _You’re hurting yourself, is what you’re doing_. It’s so close to the tip of his tongue, but it’s one among many things that Blaine just won’t hear, and Kurt can’t push him away. He can’t. So he swallows it down and says, “Okay,” instead. “I’ll wait here. As soon as the song is over, we’re leaving, okay?”

 

Blaine nods, relieved.

 

“It’ll be fine,” he says. “You’ll see.”

 

Kurt really hopes he’s right.

 

They wait through one song, then two, sipping at their drinks in silence. Finally, Blaine catches his hand with a reassuring smile and turns to go. Kurt tracks him as he moves through the crowd until the teeming, red-lit bodies swallow him up.

 

Someone approaches him before long, a guy he would only say yes to in desperation, but then, that describes the situation pretty well right now. He leads the guy through the gaps in the crowd until he’s spotted them, positions himself so that he can watch the way Sebastian’s hands move over Blaine’s broad back and the way his eyes rove over Blaine’s face. There’s something like awe, there, and something that Kurt is loath to call affection but has to admit looks very similar. It’s so much more disturbing than naked lust. If he didn’t know the context, Kurt would probably think it was sweet.

 

As it is, Sebastian’s face is almost ghoulish in the distorted light, shadowed in reds and so, so _wrong_.

 

The guy Kurt is dancing with starts to get a little handsy, so Kurt pulls away and re-positions himself so that there’s more space between them. The guy seems to think this is some sort of cat-and-mouse thing and grins as he moves in closer, sliding his hands back to Kurt’s ass. Kurt pulls away again and grabs the guy’s hands in his.

 

“Okay, no, this dance is over,” he says, because he doesn’t have to put up with it, not when Blaine is over there smiling like he’s smitten with a creep who’s trying to take something that will _never_ be his. He doesn’t have the energy to keep negotiating his boundaries, not tonight. He lets go of the guy’s hands and stalks back to the bar.

 

It’s only minutes, in reality, before Blaine is making his way back, but it might as well be hours.

 

“Let’s go,” says Blaine, weary, as soon as he’s close enough to be heard. Kurt nods stiffly and goes off to corral Rachel. She’s giddy and reluctant to go, but Kurt does not plan on leaving her here by herself, and there is no way he can stay in this club a moment longer.

 

They send Rachel off in a cab, and hail one for themselves. Kurt was planning to go back to Bushwick tonight, but he can’t bring himself to leave Blaine after that mess.

 

The cab ride is silent. Blaine offers his hand on the middle seat between them. Kurt takes it.

 

It isn’t until they’re back at Blaine’s, changed and under the covers, with only the bedside lamp to give them light, that Kurt finds the words to say what he needs to say.

 

“Is that what it’s going to be like?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“After we open. You, running off to cater to his every whim, and me, pretending to be interested in other guys to throw him off the scent.”

 

Blaine breathes in, then out again, shaky.

 

“We’ll still have this. Can’t that be enough?”

 

He sounds exhausted, and maybe a little desperate. Kurt can’t hold on to his bitterness in the face of that. He reaches out, pulls Blaine in close, feels the quick beat of their hearts chest to chest and the warm gusts of Blaine’s breath against his neck.

 

“Always.”

 

“You know that I hate it, right?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Because I do. I hate him, and I _hate_ this.”

 

“I know you do.”

 

“I wish I had a choice.”

 

 _You do_. But maybe that’s the point – the selfish choice is no choice at all.

 

“I’ll still be here. I promise.”

 

&&&&&

 

Their two-month anniversary falls on a Friday, which gives them the perfect excuse for a proper celebration. Kurt decides to kick Rachel out of the apartment for the night so that he can cook Blaine dinner with the advantage of his own kitchen appliances, acquired over years of very specific birthday requests and saved-up Christmas checks. Blaine hasn’t made it out to Bushwick yet, either, so this seems like the perfect opportunity.

 

Sebastian shows up to rehearsal that day. He tries, as he usually does these days, to arrange a dinner date, but Blaine is ready with an excuse.

 

“I’m so sorry,” he says, suitably regretful. “I’ve promised Rachel we’d stay late to work on our scenes. Opening night is just around the corner.”

 

Sebastian doesn’t look pleased, but he doesn’t push the issue, either. It’s actually a little strange, how quickly he gives up.

 

Kurt leaves early to get a start on dinner, but not before Blaine pulls him by the elbow to a hidden nook in the corridor and kisses him so thoroughly he nearly forgets they’re in public.

 

“What was that for?” he whispers.

 

“Just…Happy Anniversary. I’ve been wanting to do that all day.”

 

Kurt reaches up and smooths a strand of Blaine’s hair he touseled loose in their frenzy.

 

“Me too. See you at 8?”

 

“Can’t wait.”

 

They smile dopily at each other for a few more seconds before Blaine starts to get anxious about being missed. Kurt kisses him one last time and hums under his breath all the way to his subway stop.

 

Kurt has decided to go with a French theme for the meal: French onion soup to start, followed by herbed, roasted chicken, and chocolate soufflé for dessert. He picks up a bottle of white wine on the way home – expensive, so it must be good – and a few blocks of imported cheese to complete the menu.

 

He jumps right into cooking as soon as he gets home, singing snippets of the songs that won’t leave his head as he works. There’s this one that’s been living there for the better part of a week, but it’s wispy, without form, and Kurt doesn’t know exactly what it can be, yet. He’s learned that he can’t rush these things, or force them. For now, it’s just a little tune that’s driving him crazy, but soon enough the words will make themselves known. He’s just got to be patient.

 

Everything goes according to plan. The soup burbles beautifully, the chicken is roasted to perfection, the soufflé rises and fluffs. The table is set and ready by 8 on the dot.

 

It’s just Blaine that’s missing.

 

At 8:05, Kurt texts him. _Where are you? Call me if you need directions!_

 

No response.

 

8:10. _Dinner’s starting to get cold…_ _J_

 

8:15. _Seriously, Blaine, where are you?_

 

He puts the food back in the oven to warm. He checks his phone, just in case. The ringer is set to loud, but you never know.

 

Nothing.

 

At 8:20, he calls instead. It rings out to voicemail.

 

“Blaine, I’m starting to get worried, here. You didn’t get mugged on the way to my apartment, did you? Call me, okay?”

 

8:30. _If you’re not here by 9, I’m eating without you_.

 

He isn’t. Kurt gives it until 9:15, just in case.

 

He’s lost his appetite. He wraps up the chicken and stores it in the fridge. He pours the soup down the garbage disposal and runs it with a vicious flick of the switch. He picks at the soufflé and can’t manage more than a bite. It goes in the trash.

 

He doesn’t understand. Their plans were clear. There’s no way Blaine forgot, or misunderstood the time. Tonight was _important_. Unless he lost his phone or forgot it at home or something and got epically lost on the way to Bushwick, the only reasons he could have for missing their date are…well, unthinkably horrible.

 

By 9:30, Kurt is convinced that Blaine is lying in an alley somewhere, bleeding out onto the dirty cement. He texts Sam, but there’s no response. He considers calling the hospitals. He almost calls the police.

 

He opens up his perfectly chilled wine instead. No need for it to go to waste like the rest of the meal.

 

By 10:30, Kurt is angry. He thinks of Blaine, batting his eyes up at Sebastian like they’re in on a secret, thinks of him leaning into the weight of Sebastian’s hands. He thinks of Sebastian holding him down and Blaine willing and eager beneath him.

 

It doesn’t matter if it’s an act, because if Blaine chose to go to Sebastian tonight and didn’t even have the decency to _tell_ Kurt… He isn’t sure what that would mean, but it isn’t anything good. Even the thought feels an awful lot like betrayal.

 

By 11:30, he’s finished the bottle and gone back to worry. The world is full of terrible people, and Blaine is so very _good_. So many things could have happened to him on the way to Bushwick, and Kurt would have no way of knowing. What if he was pushed onto the subway track by a homeless guy with undiagnosed schizophrenia? There wouldn’t even be enough of him left for Kurt to identify the body.

 

The resulting image has him running for the bathroom and throwing up wine that hasn’t even had the chance to hit his bloodstream.

 

At 11:45, he thinks Sebastian is probably laughing at him. And maybe Blaine, too.

 

At 11:50, he’s convinced that Blaine is lying unconscious on his bathroom floor as his brain slowly dies of hemorrhage.

 

And so on and so forth, until, by 1:30, Kurt has cycled through so many times that he can barely even tell the difference anymore. He passes out, fully clothed and sprawled on top of the fresh, clean sheets he changed only hours before. It’s a fitful sleep, haunted by nightmares, but it keeps him in its grip until morning.

 

He wakes up groggy, with a pounding headache and that weird, hungover feeling he’s never gotten used to. He chugs down some water, forces down a couple of painkillers, and stumbles to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.

 

It’s then that he remembers.

 

His heart lurches. He pounces on his phone, and he realizes what woke him up.

 

A new message. From Blaine. Timestamped just ten minutes ago.

 

_I’m so, so sorry. Please let me come over so that I can explain?_

 

Kurt types back _Yes_ , so quickly he has to delete and re-write it three times before it comes out without typos.

 

 _I’m already on the subway. Be there soon_.

 

Something in Kurt eases. Blaine isn’t dead, at least. That’s something.

 

Clearer-headed now, with the light of day and an entire pot of coffee to bring him to his senses, Kurt knows that he went down a crazy spiral last night. He trusts Blaine, he does, it’s just… There’s only so much Blaine can control, where Sebastian is concerned. He can’t quite shake the worry that’s still eating away at his brain, little by little.

 

Blaine is there less than half an hour after his last text, pale-faced and disheveled. His eyes are huge with remorse and underlined with dark smudges that speak eloquently to the kind of night he had.

 

“Kurt,” he breathes. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t have my phone and neither did Sam, or I would have called, I _swear_.”

 

“Wait, slow down. Sam?”

 

Blaine nods. “Yeah, he was – do you think we could sit, for this?”

 

He looks a little wobbly on his feet. Kurt shakes himself and plants a guiding hand between Blaine’s shoulder blades in case he should need the support. His worry dials up a notch.

 

“Of course.”

 

He leads him to the living area, waits for him to get settled. Blaine takes a deep breath and looks Kurt in the eye.

 

“Okay. I guess I should start at the beginning.”

 

“That…would be helpful, yes.”

 

“Sue knows,” he says, without preamble.

 

“Wha – how did she – ?”

 

“She saw us in the hallway yesterday.”

 

Oh, God.

 

“What did she do?”

 

“She pulled me aside after rehearsal and told me – she said Sebastian talked to her, told her he was unhappy with how hard I’ve been working. She said she’d take care of it, and that he should go ahead and make dinner reservations, and then she told me… She wants us to end it, Kurt.”

 

“What? But that’s – that’s crazy, that’s…” He trails off, takes in the way Blaine is avoiding his eyes. “What did you say, Blaine?”

 

“I told her it was my choice.”

 

Kurt chooses his next words carefully.

 

“Is that where you were last night? With Sebastian?”

 

Blaine’s eyes widen.

 

“No! That’s – I was getting to that part. Um. Sam saw me right after, and he could tell I was shaken up. I figured – I needed someone to talk to, you know? So he came home with me and I told him what had happened and then… I started to feel really overwhelmed, and it turned into a panic attack, and Sam freaked out and took me to the hospital, and then I was stuck in the ER for the rest of the night, and – ”

 

“Wait. A _panic attack_? Are you okay? What did the doctors say?”

 

“I’m fine,” he says dismissively. “They just checked me out, ran some tests, and told me I was okay to go.”

 

“What kind of tests?”

 

“Just – blood pressure, blood sample, that kind of thing. I don’t know, I really just wanted to get out of there.”

 

“Is that – has that kind of thing happened to you before?”

 

“No, never. I’m sure it was just the stress, honestly. It was no big deal.”

 

Kurt sighs, letting go of the spike of worry that jumpstarted his heart the second he heard the word “hospital.” Panic attacks aren’t nothing, but they’re treatable. He resolves to do some research on the subject as soon as he can get to his computer.

 

“I was worried out of my mind, Blaine.”

 

Blaine takes both of Kurt’s hands in his, fingers curling together and holding tightly.

 

“I’m fine. Really. It was a pain, and I hated missing our date, but I’m more concerned about…”

 

“Sebastian.”

 

He can’t keep the anger out of his voice, or the defeat. Blaine nods, wary. He tightens his grip on Kurt’s fingers.

 

“Sue called me this morning. He was furious – he thought I’d stood him up, and he threatened to pull funding.”

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

“He said he was tired of playing games. Sue managed to placate him, but he wants to re-negotiate the contract.”

 

“Can he _do_ that?”

 

“Of course he can. Don’t you get it, Kurt? He has all of the power here, _all_ of it, and the only reason he isn’t exercising it right now is that he thinks – ” He cuts himself off, looks away. “He thinks he’s _wooing_ me.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Sue convinced him to give me time to focus on the play, but in exchange, he – he wants to add six months.”

 

Kurt sucks in a breath.

 

“ _Blaine_.”

 

“If it keeps him happy…”

 

And, God, but that’s it – Kurt’s had enough.

 

“No, Blaine. You can’t let him do this. Nothing you do will ever be enough, because what he wants is to _own_ you, and he can’t, because you’re a _person_ – and you said it yourself, you hate this. You _hate_ what it does to you, and I hate it, too. I can’t stand to watch him put his hands all over you and think that it means anything at all. Nothing could possibly be worth that.”

 

Blaine’s eyes flash.

 

“You’re wrong. _Nothing_ is what I’ll have if I back out now – no options, no future, just The Moulin Rouge and this cage I’ve built for myself. And I’m not the only one that needs this, Kurt. Those people are my family. They’re depending on me, and I can’t fail them – I can’t. It’s not an option.”

 

His breath is shallow and hectic through the tears that are choking him off and refusing to fall down his cheeks. Kurt just wants to make it _better_.

 

“I know. I understand – ”

 

“No, you don’t. What I get out of this – I’ll have a _life_ , Kurt. I’ll have you, and a career, and my freedom. That’s worth _everything_ to me. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for that.”

 

“Blaine, I – ”

 

“I know it’s a lot to ask of you, and I know I don’t have the right, because it means hiding and pretending, and knowing that he… I know it would make the most sense if we – if we ended things – ”

 

Kurt’s grip tightens.

 

“That’s not what I want, Blaine. I don’t. I never could.”

 

Blaine studies him for a moment. His breathing starts to calm, go deeper.

 

“I’ll have to sleep with him. I’ll have to let him touch me and pretend to like it. He’ll have to believe I’m in love with him. You’ll have to watch it, and the jealousy will drive you mad.”

 

Kurt shakes his head.

 

“No. I won’t get jealous.”

 

Blaine levels him a look.

 

“Kurt – ”

 

“I mean it – I trust you. I just don’t like watching him try to make you…less.”

 

Blaine sighs and looks away.

 

“Maybe we should…put things on hold, while the contract is active. You won’t have to see it, and we won’t have to hide – ”

 

“No, I told you, that’s not the solution. We just – we have to trust each other.”

 

Blaine swallows. He doesn’t say anything.

 

Kurt gently frees his hands and reaches out to draw Blaine’s gaze back to his. He tries to communicate with his eyes and his touch and, just, his _being_ how very much this means. He’s Blaine’s from inside out because he _chooses_ to be, every day, and he always will. Together, they can heal their own hearts and save their own souls, because, together, there isn’t a demon in the world they can’t face.

 

And suddenly, out of nowhere, the song has words.

 

“I’ll write a song,” he says abruptly. “And we’ll put it in the show, and no matter how bad things get, or whatever happens – whenever you hear it, or you sing it, or whistle it, or hum it, you’ll know. It will mean that we love one another.”

 

“Kurt…” His eyes are sad, almost pleading. “That’s not enough. That’s not how it works.”

 

“It’s a start. We’ll figure out the rest as we go. _We’re_ enough, Blaine.”

 

Kurt runs his thumbs over Blaine’s cheekbones, willing him to just have faith and take this leap with him.

 

Blaine breathes in, faint and shaky, and his face crumples. Kurt pulls him close and holds him tight as he lets out his sobs, scratching lightly through the hair at the nape of his neck. He can feel the shaking of Blaine’s body as it reverberates through his own, and the pinprick points of pain where Blaine’s blunt nails dig into his back. He resists the urge to smother the harsh sound of it with soothing nonsense, because he knows that’s not what Blaine needs, but it kind of breaks his heart.

 

It subsides, eventually, and Blaine sniffs, and pulls back. He nods.

 

There’s a suspended moment while they just look at each other, and then they’re meeting in the middle for a hard, desperate kiss.

 

They rest forehead to forehead, fingers clutching in the space between. Their eyes are open and watching, eyelashes brushing as they blink. Kurt feels his own go damp with the remnants of Blaine’s tears.

 

“Sing with me,” murmurs Kurt.

 

“What do you want us to sing?”

 

“Our song.”

 

_Come what may, I will love you until my dying day._

 


	6. Just Don't Deceive Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music in this chapter: "Slow Dancing in a Burning Room"

**Chapter 6: Just Don’t Deceive Me**

 

He writes it into the show – the lovers’ secret song, the emotional pinnacle of the second act. Every time Blaine sings the opening line ( _Never knew I could feel like this, like I’ve never seen the sky before_ ), he looks at Kurt, and it’s chills up and down and his heart full to bursting. It makes Kurt feel invincible.

 

It’s an act of defiance that they both need, hiding in plain sight rather than behind closed doors.

 

Sebastian starts showing up to rehearsal more and more frequently as opening night draws closer. He’s content, now, to sit in silence and stalk Blaine with his eagle eyes. He doesn’t touch him or talk to him, or even try. He just watches.

 

Kurt doesn’t let it bother him. How could he? Sebastian is nothing, he means _nothing_ in the face of their love. The only power he has is the power that they give him, and Kurt will never give him this.

 

_Come what may…_

 

The world feels so bright with hope during these final few weeks. The show is coming together, blooming with life under the hot stage lights of the freshly-renovated Moulin Rouge. The press has started buzzing around them with interest over the novelty of it all – a strip club turned off-Broadway theater, a rag-tag bunch of artists working together to shake off their dubious pasts and create something beautiful. It’s the kind of thing Kurt knows he himself would eat up, if he saw it on the news. He knows, too, that none of it will matter once the curtain opens, because what they’ve built is enough to make the audience forget the sensationalism that brought them to their seats.

 

Blaine is enough to make them forget.

 

The two of them spend every minute together that they can – Bushwick may as well have been vaporized by alien death ray for all that Kurt sees of it. They’re too desperate for time to make any kind of concession, now. Kurt finds he likes waking up every morning to the breadth of Blaine’s back, lit golden by the filtered sunlight, or his face relaxed in sleep on the pillow next to him. He likes watching him wake up, the flutter of his eyelashes and the slow, sleepy smile that fills his whole face and exposes the quirked line of his top teeth. He likes the way Blaine presses close enough to touch the tips of their noses before he murmurs his “Good morning.”

 

He even likes the taste of morning breath, when it’s Blaine’s.

 

They don’t talk about the future. Kurt tries not to even think about it, because it doesn’t matter what happens next. They’ll face it as it comes, together. And, for now, in this suspended moment, everything is entirely right.

 

&&&&&

 

 

Tonight marks ten days until opening. It’s been a long day, fraught with the stress of last-minute choreography changes and increasingly scathing performance notes from Sue. Tensions are at a high and spirits dipping lower. It’s a good night for a long bath, Kurt decides, with bubbles and candles and Blaine there to lean against. He always makes an excellent pillow.

 

Rehearsal is long over, and everyone has left. Even Sue has retreated back to her lair, leaving Kurt and Blaine alone with the freshly-painted sets.

 

Blaine is on stage, practicing a sequence that’s been giving him trouble all week. Kurt is watching, unseen, from the wings. The theater is quiet but for the echo of Blaine’s shoes against the floor and the gust of his breath through the stillness.

 

There’s an intensity approaching obsession in the way Blaine scrunches up his face in distaste and moves back into position, over and over. He huffs out a frustrated sigh.

 

Enough is enough.

 

Kurt clears his throat and steps out into the half-light of the stage.

 

“May I have this dance?”

 

Blaine starts, almost trips, then drops his chin and grins.

 

“You startled me.”

 

“You were pretty deep in it. I figured it was time to call it a night.”

 

“Just a little while longer? I feel like I’ve almost got it.”

 

Kurt smiles. He holds out his hand in invitation.

 

“Dance with me first.”

 

Blaine laughs, and takes it.

 

There’s no music, but it doesn’t matter. Their bodies fit easily – hand in hand, Blaine’s cheek bent to rest against Kurt’s neck – and find their rhythm together.

 

“You’re going to be perfect, you know,” he murmurs into Blaine’s ear.

 

He can feel Blaine smile against his skin.

 

“I’d better be.”

 

He presses a kiss just behind Blaine’s jaw, where the skin is coarse from evening stubble, and nuzzles affectionately into his hair.

 

Blaine starts to hum after a while, a tune that Kurt doesn’t recognize. It’s well-fitted to the sway of their bodies, hypnotic and bittersweet, like a slow dance on a summer night. He sings, softly, just for Kurt, “ _Baby, you’re the only light I ever saw…”_

 

They settle closer and closer, until it’s more of a caress than a dance, and they abandon all pretense. They hold each other, and breathe, and let the day melt away.

 

Finally, Blaine sighs and pulls back with one final squeeze.

 

“I’ll just go get my things from the dressing room. I think I’m ready to go home.”

 

Kurt smiles, soft and sweet, for him.

 

“I’ll be here.”

 

It’s only moments after Blaine’s left the stage, when Kurt is still drifting in his lovestruck daze, that he hears it.

 

 _Click, click, click_. The unmistakable sound of high heels sauntering over hardwood.

 

His stomach lurches.

 

“Well, well, well. Isn’t this interesting?”

 

Smug and smirking, emerging from the shadows.

 

“Santana. I thought you’d gone back to your crypt.”

 

“Nope. Thought I’d stick around for a while. You never do know what you might find in your co-stars’ dressing rooms. Though it seems the real dirt is on the stage, right under my nose.”

 

“What do you want, Santana?”

 

“Want? I don’t want anything. At least not from you. It just seems to me there’s someone who would be really curious to see what’s going down behind his back. Or, _who’s_ going down.”

 

The way she’s smiling can’t be called cruel, in the same way that a cat can’t be called cruel for toying with its prey. It’s part of her nature. That doesn’t make it any more comforting.

 

“Even you can’t be sadistic enough to tell him. He would ruin _everything_.”

 

She snorts.

 

“For _who_? There’s no way I’m getting discovered playing Rachel Berry’s magical freaking sitar.”

 

“What about Brittany?”

 

Her expression flickers into something genuine.

 

“Brit doesn’t need this. She doesn’t need Sue and she never has, but she’s never believed it. She’s talented enough to make it on her own.”

 

She tilts her chin up, a clear challenge. Kurt knows better than to try and meet it.

 

“You can’t screw the rest of us over just because you’ve got a bone to pick with Sue.”

 

Her eyes flash dangerously, for a brief splinter of a moment, and then go cool.

 

“Don’t worry, lover boy. I’m not planning to tell him. The guy’s a psychopath, and even I’m not that much of a bitch. Just – tone down the mooning or he’ll figure it out on his own.”

 

Kurt smiles tightly.

 

“Thanks for the advice.”

 

“Any time.”

 

With that, she slinks away, and Kurt is left alone to wait with his pounding heart.

 

Blaine reappears soon enough, and Kurt tells him about the encounter in a babbling panic. Blaine listens patiently and doesn’t interrupt.

 

“Santana is all bark and no bite,” he says confidently, once Kurt has run out of steam. “She would never admit to it, but she cares about us, you know? She wouldn’t do anything to hurt us.”

 

Kurt is still wary. Santana is a bombshell in every sense of the word, with a short fuse just begging to be lit. He knows that a spark is all it would take – no matter what she’s promised and no matter how much faith Blaine has in her heart, the explosion would take all of them out.

 

A day goes by, and a second, and most of a third before he really starts to relax. She doesn’t so much as look at them during rehearsal, too busy being surly at Rachel and rolling her eyes behind Sue’s back. Eventually, he stops watching her so closely and shifts his focus back to scribbling script notes and reveling in the way Blaine shines on the stage.

 

It’s a Friday when it happens.

 

One week left, and they’re reaching the end of their first semi-dress run-through. Kurt is distracted, trying to puzzle through the dialogue in an earlier scene and streamline the flow of one beat to the next, so he doesn’t realize what’s started until it’s already in the middle.

 

The action has stopped, and so have the actors, all of them crowded in the wings and turned front and center to watch the spectacle unfolding before them.

 

“…because this scene is _ridiculous_ ,” Santana is saying, sardonic and bored. She’s facing off with Rachel, who’s got her hands planted on her hips and her mouth gaping in indignation.

 

“Maybe it wouldn’t seem that way if you actually _did your job_ and took this seriously! If you put half as much effort into your performance as you put into _whining_ about it, you might not be relegated to playing furniture.”

 

It’s clear that Rachel thinks this is a winning shot. She crosses her arms over her chest and smiles smugly. Santana smiles, too, an ugly twist of her lips.

 

“The only thing wrong with my performance is the load of Hallmark crap I’m being forced to spew. I mean, come on – ‘The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return’? That’s such _bullshit_.”

 

“While I understand why it might seem that way to someone like you, Santana, _some_ of us find it to be a beautiful sentiment.”

 

“Someone like _me_?” Her smile has gone dangerous. Rachel falters, briefly, then draws herself up even taller, spine ramrod straight and nose in the air.

 

“Yes. Someone who values sex over love.”

 

Santana pauses, taken aback. Something almost hurt flashes in her eyes, before it turns to anger. She steps in closer, right into Rachel’s personal space, until Rachel has to tilt her head back to look her in the eye.

 

“Let’s get a couple of things straight, Berry. You don’t know the first thing about me. And you don’t know the first thing about love, if you think this glittery schoolboy fantasy has anything to do with it.”

 

Kurt realizes he should probably be offended, but he’s frozen, with the rest of them, trying to figure out whether or not physical blows are imminent.

 

“That’s enough, ladies,” calls out Sue, finally, leaning forward in her seat. “You can pull each other’s hair on your own time. Get yourselves together and take it from the top.”

 

Rachel nods stiffly and huffs out a sigh before returning to her mark.

 

Santana doesn’t move.

 

“Did they damage your hearing when they attached those inflatable beach balls to your chest, or was it just your short-term memory? Your mark, Sandbags.”

 

And there it is. The spark.

 

“You know what? No. I’m done putting up with this crap. I can’t be the only one who sees that this play is fucking delusional. The ending? It completely sucks. There is no way in hell the courtesan chooses the penniless playwright.”

 

Kurt goes cold. Someone in the wings gives a muffled gasp. Kurt chances a glance at Sebastian, just two seats down, gone still and blank-eyed as he stares Santana down. She smiles, cold and cruel.

 

“Oops. I mean _sitar player_.”

 

She rolls her eyes and stalks off stage. Nobody moves, or even breathes. They’re watching Sebastian instead.

 

“She’s right,” he says, finally. His voice is just as carefully controlled and unreadable as his face, and Kurt is sure it means nothing good. “The ending doesn’t make any sense. Why would the courtesan choose the penniless _sitar player_ – ” He spits it out, like it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He pauses to compose himself. “ – when the maharani is offering him a lifetime of security?”

 

The theater is dead silent. Rachel is the first to find her voice.

 

“With all due respect, Mr. Smythe, this play is about _love_ , not…security.”

 

“The sitar player has nothing to offer him but empty promises. The maharani can give him everything he’s ever wanted – _that’s_ real love.”

 

“ _No_ , it isn’t. It’s got nothing – ”

 

“Last time I checked, you were getting paid to _sing_ , Barbra. If your opinion meant anything to me at all, I would ask for it.”

 

“But you can’t – ”

 

“Actually, I think you’ll find that I can. Whose money do you think is funding this little project?” He pauses, waits for the implication of his words to sink in. “If I want the courtesan to choose the maharani, he goddamn _will_.”

 

“But that would be – it would be Broadway _blasphemy_!”

 

Sebastian laughs, and he isn’t the only one. A wave of nervous titters runs through the company at her earnest display.

 

“And why, exactly, is that?”

 

“Because he doesn’t love you!”

 

Utter silence. It’s like the air has been sucked out of the room.

 

Kurt has to fight the urge to clap a hand over his own mouth. It was nothing he meant to say, and nothing he can take back. It doesn’t stop him from trying.

 

“Her,” he corrects, lamely. “He doesn’t – he doesn’t love _her_.”

 

Everyone is staring at him, now, gaping in silent shock. He can almost feel the white-hot cold of Sebastian’s rage. He can’t look at him, can’t look at anyone, and especially not at Blaine, because he knows in this moment that he’s ruined everything, and he can’t bear to see it there in Blaine’s face. All he can do, all he’s _capable_ of doing, is sit there and hope with every particle that Sebastian will just ignore his slip of the tongue.

 

“I see,” says Sebastian, tight and trembling. “Sue. I want the ending re-written, with the courtesan choosing the maharani and without the lovers’ _secret song_.”

 

Sue is momentarily speechless.

 

“Mr. Smythe,” she manages, “Let’s talk about this in private. I don’t think – ”

 

“Sue, please.”

 

Every gaze in the room swings back to the stage, to Blaine, who’s stepping forward. Kurt wishes he would melt back into the shadows and knows without a doubt that he won’t. Blaine moves downstage and center until he’s at the very edge, as close to the audience as he can get without stepping down. He’s standing tall, striking in the deep reds of his costume, with the harshness of the lights playing up the strength of his bone structure. The tilt of his head is coquettish, the glint of his eyes magnetic. Kurt doesn’t want to see it, but he can’t look away.

 

“Personally, I think Sebastian is being treated appallingly. These silly romantics let their imaginations run away with them.”

 

He flicks his gaze to Kurt, mouth tweaked mockingly in the corner, then back to Sebastian. He has that look in his eyes that drives Kurt crazy, like the two of them are sharing a secret. He lowers himself gracefully off the stage and moves down the aisle toward Sebastian.

 

“Now,” Blaine continues, voice gone warm and intimate, “why don’t we go to dinner? And afterwards, we can let them know how we would prefer the story to end.” He touches Sebastian’s shoulder, light and teasing. Sebastian shivers. He stares up at Blaine, rapt.

 

He smirks.

 

“I have a room at The Tower. We can order room service and…talk.”

 

“The Tower, huh?”

 

“I’ve been hoping you’d come around.”

 

Blaine smiles, like it’s sweet, but it’s not, it’s _so_ not. This whole thing is giving Kurt the creeps. It’s _wrong, wrong, wrong_ , and it’s entirely his fault.

 

“I’ll be there at 8,” murmurs Blaine. He turns around and makes his way backstage, and Sebastian watches him go like he’s won the lottery. He turns to Kurt, and the look on his face could be described as murderous if it weren’t so pitying.

 

Kurt waits until the others have gotten the message and started heading for the dressing rooms before he makes any kind of move to follow. He runs, once he’s out of Sebastian’s line of sight, dodging dancers and waving off Rachel’s concern. He doesn’t bother checking for witnesses as he ducks into Blaine’s dressing room. They all know – hiding won’t do him any bit of good, now.

 

Blaine is just tugging on his shirt when Kurt shuts the door. It’s a plain t-shirt, meant to get him from his apartment to the theater and back, and it looks a little ridiculous with his costume pants. Neither of them speaks for a moment.

 

“I don’t want you to go,” says Kurt. It’s perhaps not the first thing he should say, but it’s the truest thing he feels.

 

Blaine averts his gaze and sits down, leaning over to unlace his shoes.

 

“I have to.”

 

“No, you don’t.”

 

Blaine sighs and looks up to meet his eyes. He looks exhausted.

 

“Are we going to have this conversation again? Really? You _know_ I have to. You promised me you wouldn’t be jealous.”

 

“I’m _not_. I wish you would stop making it about that.”

 

“Alright, fine, what is it about this time?”

 

Kurt’s instinct is to bite back, fight back, ratchet this up into a screaming match that will send him back to Bushwick and Blaine straight to The Tower. He stops himself. He goes to Blaine, kneels beside him.

 

“This has gone so far beyond a contract, Blaine. He just – he keeps trying to take pieces of you, and if you let him… I’m worried that there won’t be any of you left, when he’s done.”

 

“Kurt, he doesn’t have any of me. I swear. He never could. You told me, remember? You told me we have to trust each other. You have to trust me, now.”

 

Kurt swallows.

 

“I do.”

 

“Then prove it.”

 

Kurt just looks at him, pleading, his words having run dry. Blaine softens and ducks his head so that he can sing into Kurt’s ear, “ _Come what may…”_

 

He leaves it unfinished, but the message is entirely clear.

 

Kurt closes his eyes, rests his temple briefly against Blaine’s, then pulls back.

 

“Come what may.”

 

Blaine smiles, soft and sad.

 

“I’ll come home to you after, alright?”

 

“You promise?”

 

“Promise.”

 

Kurt makes his best attempt at a smile. Blaine leans forward to press a kiss to his lips.

 

“I’m sorry,” Kurt whispers, while they’re still so close that Blaine’s beautiful eyes are the only thing he can see. Blaine nods, gently, but enough to knock their foreheads together.

 

“I should go,” he says.

 

Kurt stops himself from responding, _Don’t_.

 

A moment later, he’s out the door and Kurt is alone.

 

&&&&&

 

He stays in Blaine’s dressing room for a long while after that. He can’t face the others, not right now, not when he knows they’ll be looking at him with pity.

 

When finally he gathers the will to leave, he finds a group of them huddled and waiting for him just down the hall. Rachel breaks away and comes to him, heartbreak all over her face. She throws her arms around him, dragging him down with the weight of her arms around his neck.

 

“Oh, Kurt, I’m so sorry! This wouldn’t have happened if I could have just kept my big mouth shut.”

 

Kurt snorts, bitter.

 

“Yeah, you and me both.”

 

She pulls back and smiles at him hopefully, her eyes big and shiny with unshed tears.

 

“We thought we’d stay and keep you company. Maybe order a few pizzas and play theater games?”

 

“I’m leaving unless there’s alcohol.”

 

“Sam’s already on it, don’t worry.”

 

Kurt sighs. It’s either get drunk here or do it at Blaine’s apartment, alone, with all of Blaine’s things around him.

 

“Lead the way.”

 

They start toward the group, Rachel’s arm linked tightly through his, but a throat clearing from behind makes them stop and turn.

 

Santana. In her street clothes, the closest thing she ever comes to sheepish.

 

“I thought you quit,” bites Kurt. “Couldn’t handle my – what did you call it? ‘Glittery schoolboy fantasy’?”

 

“It’s a week until opening. You’ll have a hell of a time replacing me, and I figured I owed you a break.”

 

“Like you care!” scoffs Rachel.

 

“I do,” she says quietly, glancing quickly at the group down the hall. Brittany is watching them openly, while the others pretend to be deep in conversation.

 

“Obviously not enough, or you wouldn’t have sold us out less than two hours ago.”

 

“Look, I didn’t mean to do that. I was backed into a corner, and I was pissed, and – I have rage, okay?”

 

Kurt snorts. Understatement.

 

She ignores him and continues, “But it turned out fine, so I don’t see why you can’t just take my peace offering and move on.”

 

She crosses her arms, a protection and a challenge, and Kurt can only stare.

 

“What do you mean, _fine_? Blaine is with him _right now_.”

 

She blinks.

 

“Yes, and our friend Andrew McCarthy is horny enough to believe any goddamn thing Blaine tells him. We’re golden.”

 

“You really are a heinous bitch.”

 

Her eyes flash, and she leans closer.

 

“I’m just keeping it real for you, Dopey. This is nothing your boytoy hasn’t done a thousand times over. It’s business. It’s a deal. You get your ending and Sebastian gets his…end…in.”

 

Kurt isn’t a violent person, but right now, as she snickers at her own joke, he could slap her right across the cheek. He could, it would be so easy, and it would feel so good to release some of this anger that’s twisted bitterly up in his gut.

 

“Fuck you,” he spits, instead.

 

She recoils just the same.

 

She stares at him for a long moment, sizing him up.

 

“You idiot,” she says, finally, voice soft and pitying. “You never fall in love with someone who’s up for sale.” Her eyes flicker behind him. “It always ends badly.”

 

With that, she turns on her heel and struts toward the exit.

 

“Santana, where are you going?” calls Brittany. She rushes past Kurt and grabs Santana by the wrist. “Come on, I thought you said you were going to wait with us.” She slides her hand down until their pinkies are linked between them.

 

“I don’t stay where I’m not wanted.”

 

“ _I_ want you.”

 

Santana smiles, real and sad.

 

“I know.”

 

She leans in and kisses Brittany on the cheek before continuing on her way.

 

Brittany watches her for a few moments, wistful, then turns back to the rest of them with a sigh. She approaches Kurt and looks him straight in the eye.

 

“I’m sorry Blaine had to sell his soul to that guy with the plastic hair. It was a really nice one. It smelled like raspberries.”

 

She smiles her sunshine smile, dimmed with concern but still bright. He can’t muster one up in return. She pats his shoulder in sympathy and retreats to the group behind them without another word.

 

Kurt feels suddenly hollowed out, void, like a black hole has taken up residence inside his chest. The ugly emotions have been sucked right out, along with his lingering hope.

 

He knows, now, that no amount of alcohol will be enough to make him feel remotely okay about Blaine acting out his own human sacrifice ritual. Nothing could make him laugh tonight, or forget, and being around these well-meaning people who feel that, somehow, they’re being _saved_ …

 

It’s too much.

 

“I’m going,” he mutters, in Rachel’s general direction.

 

“No, wait, I’ll come with you! You shouldn’t be alone, Kurt. Not tonight.”

 

But he’s already walking away.

 

He doesn’t know where he’s going when he hits the cool night air. He just walks.

 

Block after block, under stars he can’t even see, breathing in the stifling city air. He doesn’t think, won’t let himself.

 

He doesn’t think about Sebastian’s eyes and the reverent way they settle on Blaine’s face, or about his hands running down the length of Blaine’s bare skin. He definitely doesn’t think about his lips, because he knows how hungry Sebastian has been, and to think of him sucking his desperate, sloppy kisses into the curve of Blaine’s neck is enough to make Kurt clench his teeth so hard he’s in danger of cracking his molars.

 

He counts cracks in the pavement instead.

 

He can’t seem to stop moving.

 

It’s an hour, at least, before he realizes where his feet have taken him.

 

The Tower looms large in front of him, just four blocks from where he started. He must have gone in a circle. He stops in his tracks, irrationally angry at his brain for pulling him here when it’s the last place he even wants to think about. He looks up, can’t help himself, cranes his neck and thinks _what if_ … Blaine is inside, somewhere, could be just beyond that lit-up window, or the one above it. And yet, he might as well be on one of those invisible stars, for all that Kurt can reach him now.

 

Movement catches his eye from the penthouse balcony, a figure in shadow that’s gone before he’s had a chance to really look. It snaps him out of his reverie.

 

He shakes himself and starts walking again. This time, he knows where he’s going.

 

Blaine said he would come home to him, after all.

 

&&&&&

 

Kurt lets himself in to Blaine’s apartment and pours himself a glass of wine that he doesn’t drink. Het sets it on the coffee table, careful not to let his trembling fingers spill. He sits on the couch and lets his mind stay blank. He turns on some music to drown out the quiet. It’s jarring. He turns it off. He picks up a magazine and tries to flip through, but the words mean nothing and the colors blur together.

 

Time passes. It feels like forever, like he lives a lifetime in the space between each breath and the next. He checks his watch. It’s only been 15 minutes.

 

Blaine’s cuckoo clock chimes the hour – 10:00 – and the plump little canary pops cheerfully out to warble his tune. If Blaine were here, he’d be singing along. _An Ode to Pavarotti_ , he calls it.

 

The bird retreats behind the door, trapped in the dark until he’s needed once again.

 

It somehow seems cruel.

 

 _You were only waiting for this moment to be free_ …

 

The song pops, unbidden, into his head. He blinks away his hot, sudden tears.

 

 _Blackbird, fly_ …

 

His own little bird is no closer to flying away than he ever was, pinned down by the wings whenever he tries. He’s no freer than that canary in his wooden box.

 

Kurt moves to take the clock off the wall, take out the batteries, because he can’t stand to look at it anymore, and he definitely can’t stand to hear it ticking the seconds away.

 

He doesn’t get far.

 

The door crashes open. Kurt whips around, heart zooming with adrenaline, and –

 

Blaine, it’s Blaine, and he’s rushing to Kurt before Kurt has the chance to process what he’s seeing.

 

He throws his arms around Kurt’s neck and gasps into the base of it, “I couldn’t do it.”

 

“What?”

 

Blaine loosens his grip and raises his head, and Kurt can see now how disheveled his hair is, almost in curls, and the tear tracks drying on his cheeks. His shirt is hanging open, thread dangling where buttons used to be, and his pants only manage to resist gravity by virtue of how tightly they grip his legs. A vaguely thumb-shaped bruise is smudged over his windpipe, just starting to turn dark. His eyelashes are clumped together from the damp he’s trying so furiously to blink away.

 

“I saw you there, on the sidewalk, and I – I felt differently, and I didn’t want to pretend anymore. I didn’t – you were right Kurt, you were _right_ , and I didn’t want to give him any parts of me at all, and I couldn’t do it.” He’s breathing hard and gasping on the intake, and Kurt suddenly remembers _it turned into a panic attack_. He has one hand at Blaine’s face and one soothing down his back. He breathes as slowly and steadily as he can, hoping Blaine will match him. He can feel Blaine’s heartbeat, jackhammer fast. “And – and he saw, Kurt, Sebastian saw, and he – he – ” His breath _shudders_.

 

“He had him pinned down when I got there,” says a new voice, and Kurt starts. He tears his gaze away from Blaine and sees Sam, leaning against the front door. His eyes are weary, and cold with disgust. “He was, uh – he – I pulled him off and punched him out and we got out of there before he came to.”

 

Kurt has never felt as capable of murder as he does right now, thinking of Blaine, overpowered by the length of Sebastian’s limbs, struggling as Sebastian’s hands creep where they have no right to go and rip through his clothes like they’re nothing, just obstacles in the way of taking what isn’t freely given. Kurt’s fingers dig unconsciously into Blaine’s flesh. Blaine doesn’t seem to notice. He’s still trying to catch his breath.

 

“He knows, Kurt. He saw, and he _knows_ , and – ”

 

“It’s alright. Blaine, it’s alright, you don’t have to pretend anymore. Okay? It’s your choice.”

 

Blaine swallows and looks at him, trusting and so very frightened.

 

“But – how – ?”

 

Two seconds ago, and Kurt wouldn’t have had a clue, but things are suddenly so clear.

 

“We’ll leave. We can leave tomorrow – we – we’ll go to LA, if you want, or anywhere in the world, and we’ll wait this out as long as we need.”

 

Blaine gapes at him for a moment, and searches his eyes.

 

“What about the show?”

 

“ _Screw_ the show.”

 

“The others, I can’t just – ”

 

“Yes, you can. Of course you can. You’re worth so much more than a _play_ , Blaine, and the others – if they care about you, if they’re your family, they’ll see that. And if they don’t? Well then, screw them, too. You _matter_.”

 

Blaine stares at him, breath finally even and strong. He nods.

 

“Okay. Yeah, okay. Let’s – let’s go to LA.”

 

His smile starts slow and ends up bright as starlight. Kurt feels something shiver inside with the relief of it. He smiles, too.

 

Sam clears his throat.

 

“I’m going to go report back to Sue and tell her what happened.”

 

Blaine whips around.

 

“Don’t tell her about our plans, Sam. I mean it. She’ll only try to get me to change my mind.”

 

Sam swallows, and nods.

 

“Alright. But I’m going to tell her about the rest of it, ‘cause I can’t handle that dude on my own.”

 

“Okay.”

 

They look at each other, Sam poised at the door and Blaine tangled up in Kurt’s arms, and in two seconds flat they’re wrapped up in a hug, clinging to each other like it’ll be the last time.

 

It might very well be.

 

They whisper their goodbyes, and Sam is out the door.

 

Blaine stares after him, like he’s lost. Kurt approaches him, wraps his arms around him from behind.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

Blaine breathes in sharply, wet enough to be a sniffle.

 

“No,” he chokes out.

 

“What can I do?”

 

Blaine turns in his arms and wraps his own around Kurt’s torso.

 

“Can you just – ?”

 

He closes the distance between their lips, kissing hard and desperate before he pulls back enough to speak.

 

“I just – he was touching me, and I – can you please – ?”

 

His voice is going tight and thready, and it’s not right at all. Kurt doesn’t think, just gives him what he needs. This next kiss is lush and slow, and Kurt can feel Blaine’s heartbeat sync almost immediately to his.

 

They kiss until they start to go weak at the knees, and then they kiss some more. Gravity is pulling them down, and everything is a blur, but they manage somehow to navigate the hallway and fumble open the bedroom door without falling to the floor. Clothes come off at some point, and then it’s skin, glorious skin sliding hot and slick, and Blaine’s fingers clutching into his hair, and their bodies squirming together in desperation for that extra bit of friction. There’s a moment of clarity – Blaine, hovering over him with fever in his eyes, murmuring _Ready?_ – and then the plunge, when the only thing he can process is the feel of it all, the tangled-up, you-me, higher-and-higher build, his hands holding Blaine’s head to his, their breath the same humid air, the push and pull so natural to their bodies that there’s no _need_ to think.

 

It’s over quickly, perhaps too quickly, but the idea of slowing down is completely foreign tonight. Blaine snuggles into Kurt’s arms after they’ve both come down, nose burrowed into his favorite spot at the juncture of Kurt’s neck and shoulder. Kurt pulls him tight as he can and dearly hopes that he’s thinking of no one’s touch but his.

 

“I love you,” murmurs Blaine. “I really do. I’ll go anywhere with you.”

 

“ _Come what may…_ ” sings Kurt, softly. Blaine sighs, bittersweet, and closes his eyes as he settles himself deeper into the give of Kurt’s body.

 

“I’ll love you ‘til my dying day,” he finishes on a whisper.


	7. The Show Must Go On

**Chapter 7: The Show Must Go On**

 

Kurt is reluctant to leave the next morning, but there are details he has to take care of, and quickly, if they’re going to follow through on the plans they made last night.

 

He tells Rachel as soon as he gets home. She listens with wide eyes and, thankfully, doesn’t say a word about the show.

 

He doesn’t want to fight with her today.

 

She has afternoon plans that she swears she’ll cancel if he just says the word, but there’s not much she can do to help, and he doesn’t want to feel her sad eyes watching him all day. She hugs him tight before she leaves, sniffling against his chest as her nails dig into his back.

 

“Are you sure about this?” she says. “Absolutely sure?”

 

“Yeah, Rachel, I am. We need a fresh start.”

 

“And you can’t get it here? Or, maybe, wait a week?”

 

“No. To both. He’s dangerous, Rachel. We need to get away – for now, at least.”

 

“I guess calling the police is out of the question.”

 

“Yeah, no, I’m pretty sure we’re operating outside of the law, here.”

 

She laughs wetly and gives him one last squeeze.

 

“Call me, okay? And come back soon.”

 

Kurt nods and blinks back his own tears with a fond smile.

 

He calls his dad after she leaves. He tells him about LA, trying to pass it off as a whirlwind vacation, but he’s pretty sure he’s only marginally successful.

 

“Are you sure you’ve got the money for that, kid?” asks his dad, skeptical.

 

“Blaine does. He’s, um, been saving up.”

 

It’s his emergency stash, but still. Not a lie.

 

“Blaine, huh?”

 

“Yeah – you know, the guy I’ve been seeing?”

 

“Well, I do now. I was wondering when you were going to tell me his name. Things must be getting serious, then.”

 

“Yeah, Dad. They are.”

 

“Well, just make sure he keeps treating you right. I don’t want you putting up with some guy’s bullcrap just ‘cause he takes you on fancy Hollywood vacations.”

 

Kurt smiles.

 

“I don’t think that will be a problem.”

 

He changes the subject as quickly as he can without pinging his father’s suspicions. He stays on the phone for longer than he can really afford, but it’s the last time he’ll have a chance until who-knows-when, and he’s going to let himself enjoy it.

 

The rest of the afternoon is spent doing the million and one things that tend to pop up when you’re about to embark on a last-minute cross-country trip with no return date in sight – including, but not limited to, researching cheap LA hotels and re-packing his bags about five times over.

 

Blaine hasn’t called him all day. He’s busy, too, Kurt knows. It’s not entirely surprising.

 

It just means he’s that extra little bit of anxious, waiting for Blaine to arrive that afternoon. What if something happened? What if Sue found him, or, God forbid, Sebastian? What if he’s with Sebastian right now and has no way of calling for help?

 

He refrains from texting after his first goes unanswered, but he can’t stop himself from checking his phone every few minutes. Every time the screen comes up blank, it’s a spike of anxiety.

 

He talks himself down. He checks again.

 

And repeat.

 

He’s driving himself crazy – Blaine is _busy_ , for God’s sake, there’s no need to panic. He’ll be here. And then they’re getting out, together, and they can make of their lives what they want. He’ll write, and Blaine will perform, and they might not ever be famous or have any money at all, but none of that matters when they have each other.

 

He checks again to be sure.

 

Nothing.

 

 _Stop it_.

 

They’re meeting at 4:00. His concentration gets worse and worse as the afternoon wears on, so much so that he’s been reduced to sitting on the couch and staring at the wall by the time Blaine knocks on his door at 3:59 exactly.

 

His heart jolts in this weird, tangled mix of heightened emotion.

 

“Come in!” he calls, as he jumps up to meet him.

 

Blaine slides the door open, shuts it behind himself, and stays where he is in the entryway. He doesn’t move to take off his jacket.

 

He looks…distant. His hair is perfectly gelled, his outfit immaculate and finished with a bow tie. His expression is cold, and otherwise blank.

 

Kurt stops where he’s standing.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

Blaine looks toward him, but not _at_ him, eyes focused on a point beyond Kurt’s shoulder.

 

“I’m staying here,” he says, finally. “With Sebastian.”

 

Kurt’s stomach drops.

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

It comes out high, and shaky, and he doesn’t care. Blaine gives a small, pitying smile. That’s when Kurt notices – Blaine didn’t bring anything with him. Dread starts running hot and cold through his blood.

 

“He came to me, this afternoon. After you left. He offered me a very…lucrative deal.”

 

“Wha – Blaine, I don’t – ”

 

“It’s what I’ve been waiting for. He wants to give me everything, and he can do it, too. He has the money and the power to make every one of my dreams come true. He has just one condition – I can never see you again.”

 

His stare is level and so, so _cold_ , and Kurt thinks he might actually be going crazy. This –this _stranger_ in front of him isn’t Blaine, couldn’t be Blaine, because Blaine would _never_ say these things.  

 

“No. That’s – what about last night, you told me – ?”

 

Blaine’s gaze flicks away for a second, toward the door at his back.

 

“You always knew who I was, Kurt.”

 

_I can’t make any promises…_

 

No. No, no, no, no, no. This is – it’s completely ridiculous, and it doesn’t make sense, and he’s so calm, and steady, and he won’t look Kurt in the eye – 

 

“Look at me, Blaine.”

 

Blaine’s eyes flit to his and away again before Kurt can really even _see_. Blaine lifts his chin in a haughty show of strength.

 

“I don’t expect you to understand. You don’t belong in this world, not the way I do.”

 

“You’re right, I don’t, but _neither do you_. That’s what – I don’t under – what could possibly have changed since this morning?”

 

“I came to my senses.”

 

It stings like a slap to the face, the way it was intended to.

 

“Obviously. That’s why you’re willing to stay with a _rapist_ who doesn’t even realize you’re a person _._ Because of how _logical_ it is.”

 

Blaine’s gaze snaps to his, eyes blazing with an emotion that Kurt can’t fully read. It looks an awful lot like desperation.

 

“This isn’t a discussion. I’m not asking for your permission, and I’m not going to listen to a sermon. I’m telling you, Kurt. I’m staying here, with Sebastian, and I want you to stay away from me.”

 

“No. There’s got to be something else. Something’s wrong, isn’t it? You wouldn’t – what aren’t you telling me, Blaine?”

 

“I told you already. You’ve become a liability. There’s nothing else.”

 

So far, the shock of it all has managed to hold off Kurt’s hysteria, but now it’s coming in full force and taking him over. He can feel it rising up from somewhere deep and choking him, gagging him as it tries to escape.

 

“No. No, there has to be. You have to _tell_ me, Blaine, you have to – you’ve got to trust me, remember? Just – _tell me what’s wrong_!”

 

He’s practically screaming, by the end, and gripping Blaine’s arms like he can squeeze the truth out of him. Blaine’s gaze is roving wildly, never coming to rest or coming anywhere near Kurt’s eyes. Kurt reaches up and grabs his face, _makes_ him look, because he won’t believe a word Blaine says until he can see him there.

 

Blaine falters.

 

It’s just a moment, a peek behind the shutters of his eyes, so quick that Kurt isn’t even sure he saw it at all. He could scream with the frustration of it, but he feels much more in danger of crying.

 

Blaine gathers himself and straightens his back. He shrugs out of Kurt’s grip and looks him steadily in the eye. There’s nothing there that Kurt recognizes.

 

“It’s my choice, remember? That’s what you said. And I choose Sebastian.” He raises an eyebrow, voice mild and mocking. “This courtesan chooses the maharani. That’s how the story really ends.”

 

Kurt is struck completely speechless. Blaine takes advantage and turns sharply to go. He’s out the door before Kurt can bring himself to move.

 

When it finally hits him, he shoves open the door and runs out to the hallway.

 

“Blaine!” he calls, as if it will do any good. His voice is splintered and painful, but he barely takes notice.

 

There’s no answer, no movement.

 

He doesn’t know what to do, now.

 

He slumps against the wall and lets gravity take him to the floor.

 

He’s still there when Rachel returns two hours later.

 

&&&&&

 

The days that follow are a blur. He doesn’t leave the apartment or, generally, his bed. Not that he can sleep at night, or any other time of the day – Ambien has become his best friend.

 

His initial anguish fades quickly into a detached sort of numbness, which is nice. He knows it might not last, so he enjoys it while he can. It saps him of his energy, but that’s a small price to pay to live his life floating above all of the painful things. Like emotional morphine.

 

Rachel is walking on eggshells around him. She brings him tea and toast in the morning and warm milk at night, always with that look on her face, like she wants to say something. She never does. She makes these abortive movements, too, like she wants to smooth his hair or rub his shoulder but knows how badly it would be received. She knows him, at least.

 

He tells her flatly not to quit the show when she offers, because he isn’t vindictive, and there’s no need for her to waste this opportunity. He would find her loyalty touching if he were capable of it at the moment.

 

His dreams are terrible. Blaine is in them, always. He’s laughing at Kurt or fucking Sebastian, or both, while Sebastian looks Kurt in the eye and says things like, “He’s mine.” Sometimes Sebastian doesn’t feature at all – it’s just Blaine and some figure in the dark, and he’s calling for help, and Kurt can’t move a muscle. Or it’s Blaine, alone, on an empty stage, where he bursts into flame and burns to ashes, and Kurt waits and waits, but Blaine isn’t a phoenix, and he never ever rises.

 

He wakes up clammy and shaking and goes promptly about the business of forgetting them.

 

Until, one day, he doesn’t want to. He wakes up and, instead of feeling everything and nothing all at once, he feels…angry.

 

It’s a clean feeling, nothing messy about it, and nothing scary. He holds onto it.

 

He turns to his nightstand and picks up the picture of Blaine, the one he set facing his pillow so it would be the last thing he saw at night when he couldn’t see the real thing, the one he couldn’t bear to put away when Blaine left him desperate on the floor. He looks at it. Blaine, smile alight, who promised Kurt his heart and took Kurt’s gladly in return.

 

His fingers clench around the frame, and he throws it without a second thought. It smashes against the floor and shatters.

 

That photo was nothing more than a fantasy. Kurt was so hungry for love, starved and half-delirious with it, that he forgot the one fundamental truth: Blaine is paid to make men believe what they want to believe. It was the very first thing Kurt learned about him, and the only thing, it turned out, that mattered.

 

None of the rest of it was real.

 

Rachel doesn’t seem convinced, when he tells her.

 

“I don’t know, Kurt. He’s not himself. His performance hasn’t suffered – ”

 

Kurt scoffs, “Of course not.”

 

“ – but he’s just kind of…lifeless, off stage.”

 

“You said it yourself, Rachel. He’s a consummate performer – you can’t believe a word he says.”

 

She puts her hands up in surrender.

 

“Okay. It’s just…Sam is worried, too.”

 

“Look, I don’t care if Blaine is feeling guilty or regrets his choices, or _whatever_. I don’t _care_. He used me, Rachel. He never l-loved me at all.” His voice tightens up and he stumbles over the word, but he refuses to cry even one tear over Blaine.

 

She gets that look. She sighs.

 

“I’ll go make you some milk, alright? And then maybe we can watch _The Notebook_ – I know you’ve always found it cathartic.”

 

His jaw clenches.

 

“I’ll be in my room,” he says.

 

He doesn’t need _catharsis_. He needs to delete the pictures of Blaine from his phone and rip up the playbills he kept as mementos of their dates. He’d rip up every memory in his head, if he could.

 

The anger lasts for a few days, and it feels so _good_ , like he’s making progress, putting everything behind him, putting _Blaine_ behind him, but then he’s left feeling empty.

 

The worst thing is, he _misses_ Blaine. Even though he knows it’s pathetic, and he knows their relationship existed mostly in his head, he just…wants him.

 

There’s a part of him that’s starting to doubt.

 

Rachel convinces him one night, two days before the opening, to help her finish the bottle of vodka they’ve had in their freezer since the ill-advised Halloween party they threw last fall. She’s a bundle of nerves, and Kurt is tired of yo-yoing between emotional extremes.

 

It’s a bad idea.

 

He’s in a cab on the way to Chelsea before he’s even hit four shots.

 

Rachel tries to convince him to stay, she tries to drag him by the arm back up to the loft, but Kurt has it in his head that this is something he needs to do. He _needs_ to see Blaine. He needs to know.

 

She doesn’t manage to stop him, but she does slip through the cab door before he can slam it in her face. She spends the entire ride telling Kurt exactly why they should tell the driver to turn around – how the only thing he’s going to achieve is to ruin his boots in the rain, how he’s going to regret this in the morning, how he always makes bad decisions when he’s been drinking – but Kurt tunes her out. He’s going to see Blaine, and that’s the only thing that matters.

 

He leaves Rachel to deal with payment, as he didn’t bring his wallet, or even a jacket.

 

Once he’s standing outside of Blaine’s building, he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t have his key, or his phone. Beating on the door would be fruitless. He just stands there, ignoring the rain, and thinking about the fact that Blaine is _right there_ , just out of reach. He _needs_ to talk to him, and he’s so, so close.

 

Rachel places a careful hand on his shoulder.

 

“Are you satisfied now?”

 

Kurt looks up to where he knows Blaine’s bedroom window faces out. It’s dark. All of his windows are dark. Kurt’s stomach lurches, churning the alcohol hard enough that he thinks he might actually be sick.

 

And then something catches his eye, and he looks up, up, and farther up. Like déjà vu, a shadowy figure on the roof, obscured by the rain.

 

“Blaine!” he shouts. He has no doubts in this moment that it’s him. “Blaine!”

 

He screams Blaine’s name like it’s the only word he knows, voice broken into painful shards. Rachel tries to quiet him, but she’s nothing more than a fly to be swatted away.

 

Someone comes to the door, and Kurt’s heart swells with hope before he understands what he’s seeing.

 

It’s a guy in a suit, big and muscled and stony-faced. He marches out the front door with purpose.

 

“Oh, God,” whispers Rachel behind him.

 

The guy approaches him swiftly, in powerful strides that would be intimidating if Kurt could feel something other than his frenzy.

 

“You need to leave,” says the guy, once he’s in range. His voice is deep, and hard with warning.

 

“I’m here to see Blaine,” rasps Kurt.

 

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

 

He steps closer. Rachel tugs nervously at his arm.

 

“Come on, Kurt, let’s go.”

 

Kurt shakes her off.

 

“I’m not leaving until I talk to him.”

 

Without another word, the guy moves in and twists Kurt’s arms behind his back. He practically throws him face first against the nearest wall and presses him into it. His cheek scrapes painfully against the slimy brick.

 

“I suggest that you reconsider.”

 

“Okay, okay, we’re going!” squeaks Rachel. “Just – let him go! Our cab is right there.”

 

Kurt can’t even feel indignation at the fact that she told the driver to wait, he’s so relieved.

 

The guy lets him go, roughly, and watches them leave. He doesn’t go back inside until the cab’s pulled away.

 

“Oh, Kurt, does it hurt? I _told_ you this was a bad idea!”

 

Rachel is hovering over him, as much as is possible in the back of a cab. Kurt ignores her.

 

“Who _was_ that guy?” he says, instead.

 

Rachel looks away, vaguely guilty.

 

“I didn’t want to tell you, you never want to hear anything about Blaine. Not that I blame you!”

 

She stops, checks, makes sure he isn’t angry. He sighs impatiently.

 

“Just spit it out, Rachel.”

 

“He’s been at rehearsal all week. He comes in with Blaine and leaves with Blaine, and I’m pretty sure he follows him to the bathroom.”

 

Kurt grimaces.

 

“Okay, but who _is_ he?”

 

“He’s like a bodyguard. Sort of. Sam says that Sebastian hired him to make sure Blaine doesn’t see you – or anyone else, for that matter – before opening night.”

 

“That seems a little…”

 

“Extreme? I know. Sam says Sebastian sees it like a – a cleansing, of sorts. He wants to make sure you’re out of Blaine’s system before…”

 

“The contract.”

 

“Right.”

 

“That’s sick. And unnecessary. I was never _in_ Blaine’s system.”

 

“Kurt…”

 

“No. I don’t want to talk about it, Rachel.”

 

She nods her understanding. The cab ride is quiet and long, and Kurt just wants to sleep.

 

Once they get home, she helps him clean off his cheek and hang his clothes to dry. He crawls into bed as soon as she’ll allow it, ignoring his damp boxers and rain-soaked hair. He lies awake for hours, staring into the faint light provided by the streetlamps beyond their living room window and trying desperately not to think.

 

He manages a few hours of fitful sleep, not enough to be satisfying or to take away the dark circles that seem to be tattooed beneath his eyes.

 

He spends the day listlessly watching TV Land. He drifts off every once in a while, only to be woken by particularly loud bursts from the laugh-track.

 

He’s not sure how long he’s been asleep, this last time, but he jerks awake and realizes right away that something is different. The TV is off, and someone is flicking his nose.

 

He bats at the hand until it stops, and he can pull himself together enough to see who it belongs to.

 

He sighs.

 

“Santana. What are you doing here? And how did you get in?”

 

“I have my ways.”

 

Kurt opens his mouth to ask, but then he hears the shower running, and he closes it. He and Rachel are going to have to have a talk.

 

Santana clears her throat and leans forward. She looks…sincere, for once in her life.

 

“Look, I feel like I’m partially responsible for what happened, and I want to make it right.”

 

Kurt raises his eyebrows at her, but he doesn’t say a word. He can already sense where this is going.

 

“I know I said some things to you that – well, the thing is, I may have been influenced by my own…issues. With love.”

 

Kurt is intrigued, in spite of himself.

 

“What happened? With Brittany, I mean.”

 

Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. She pauses a moment, calculating, then gives in. She sighs.

 

“We were best friends, for years. Sometimes it felt like she was my only friend, the only person in the world who really… _got_ me, you know? But then we started fooling around, and it was nothing at first – we’d done it before, with clients, and it was no big deal, just a little fun. And…I fell in love with her.” She smiles, but it’s more bitter than sweet. “I – I asked her to run away with me. Or, at least, get real jobs and split an apartment in SoHo. You know, whatever. Just – get away from The Moulin Rouge.”

 

“She said no?”

 

“She said she couldn’t do that to Sue. She thinks of that place as a home, you know? And Sue may be a manipulative bitch, but I’ve got to hand it to her – she’s damned _good_ at being a manipulative bitch. She knows just what buttons to push.”

 

“So what did you do?”

 

“What could I do? I stayed. If Brittany’s there, I’m there.”

 

Kurt lets this digest.

 

“How did you deal with…?”

 

“The fact that she was fucking other people?”

 

Kurt nods.

 

“It helped that I was doing it, too. And that we were getting paid – I mean, it was a _job_.” Her expression deflates. “Not that Brit ever saw it that way.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“She saw the sex as a perk. It’s why she was so popular. And why Sue tried so hard to keep her.”

 

“And why you tried so hard to get her to leave.”

 

She looks at him, gaze gone sharp and narrow.

                                                                                     

“Which brings us back to you.”

 

“No. I don’t want to hear it, Santana.”

 

“Well, too bad. You need to. Blaine is – you have to understand, he’s never been like the rest of us. We each had our thing, you know? Brittany was bright and bubbly, I was the smoldering temptress, Sam, the non-threatening boy next door – you get the picture. It was all part of Sue’s strategy. But Blaine was different. His thing was…transformation. He could become what the client wanted, before they even knew they wanted it. He was good at it, too. I’ve seen it.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Which is why I know he wasn’t doing that with you.” She waits. He doesn’t look at her, but he can feel the weight of her eyes on him. “He loves you, Kurt. There’s a reason he’s doing this, and it’s probably a dumb one, but it isn’t that he doesn’t love you. I’m sure of it.”

 

Kurt still doesn’t look at her. Just hearing the softness in her voice is almost too much. She doesn’t know anything, about him or about them, she doesn’t even really know _Blaine_. Kurt isn’t sure Blaine _exists_ , at least not outside the simulacra he creates to seduce and destroy.

 

He can’t let her re-ignite even the smallest spark of hope in his heart. It’s been blown to bits, and he hasn’t even started the repairs. It won’t survive another explosion.

 

“Santana, please. Just – can you please just go away and leave me alone?”

 

“Don’t be an idiot, I’m – ”

 

“I mean it. I’m done talking to you.”

 

“Kurt – ”

 

“ _Get out_.”

 

“Fine,” she snaps.

 

He waits until she stalks out, then burrows deeper into the couch and turns the TV back on. He’s not even going to think about what she said.

 

And yet…

 

It niggles at him all night, at the back of his brain where he can ignore it if he chooses.

 

_He loves you…_

 

He dreams, that night. He’s standing somewhere, stock-still, and Blaine is begging him to turn around. He sobs, he screams, and Kurt doesn’t move a muscle. He can’t, he finds. And then the noises stop, and Kurt’s limbs unstick, and he turns to find Blaine on the ground with his eyes wide open, blood burbling out of his chest and down to the ground in rivulets.

 

He wakes, gasping, and can’t go back to sleep.

 

He has to know what’s real, beyond the shadow of a doubt.

 

He has to go back, one last time, to The Moulin Rouge.


	8. The Greatest Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music in this chapter: "Come What May (Reprise)"

**Chapter 8: The Greatest Thing**

 

Kurt pats his pockets, a gesture of comfort now more than anything. He’s got his wallet, filled almost too full with the contents of his savings account. It’s not enough, not nearly enough, but it should get the point across.

 

He should make his move now. If his calculations are correct, and he’s positive they are, intermission should be ending in approximately two minutes. It will be a lot harder to slip in unnoticed once the actors are in their places and the corridors are cleared.

 

He takes a deep breath, reminds himself of his goal, and pushes open the door.

 

Backstage is just as busy and bustling as he expected, with dancers rushing to get to the stage for the act-opening number and technicians with headsets ambling back to their stations. Kurt does his best to blend in with the stream of people and get to the dressing rooms.

 

If this goes as planned, Kurt will be out of here in less than ten minutes and Blaine will be in the wings in time for his entrance. Kurt will know, and he’ll have closure, and he can move on with his life a wiser person.

 

It doesn’t go as planned.

 

Almost immediately, Kurt is forced to duck into the costume storage room to avoid Sue, who’s stomping down the hallway, looking every bit the evil maharani, and then it’s Santana, and Sam, and – oh God – Blaine himself.

 

He’s missed his window. It will be another 45 minutes at least before he even has a chance at catching Blaine alone.

 

He sighs. He might as well find a dark hiding spot in the wings to watch the show and wait for his next opportunity. He grabs the first costume jacket he can find and changes into it, waiting for the music to start before chancing the halls again. Finally, he deems it safe enough to make his cautious way to the stage door.

 

He’s plunged into darkness once he makes it through. The house lights are down, and the curtain has yet to rise. He makes his way from memory to a spot where he knows he’ll be hidden by shadow and curtain when the stage lights come up.

 

He tries to enjoy the show, and he should, because it’s going wonderfully, but he can’t think past Blaine, not fifteen feet away. Beautiful Blaine, who nobody in the room can take their eyes off of for a second, who makes people fall in love with him and uses them like they’re nothing more than tools to help him get his way.

 

Sebastian is in the front row, watching with a smile that’s besotted and smug in turns. There’s an obscene bouquet of deep red roses resting prettily on the seat next to him.

 

They deserve each other.

 

Soon, Kurt realizes his time has come. It’s almost the end – there’s just one scene left, the finale that Sebastian stole from him and perverted with his jealousy. Blaine and Rachel have one final costume change.

 

Kurt follows them when they exit – follows Blaine, really, all the way to his dressing room at the end of the hall.

 

He pauses outside the door to gather himself, and, in the silence, he hears what he would swear are rubber-soled footsteps behind him. He looks over his shoulder, startled, but nobody is there.

 

He opens the door.

 

Blaine whips around. His eyes widen, _scared_ , before he can control himself.

 

“I’ve come to pay my bill,” says Kurt. His voice is calm, much calmer than he feels, and steadier than his trembling hands.

 

Blaine stares at him for a moment, speechless, then looks away and starts working the ties of his costume vest. Kurt notes that his hands are trembling, too.

 

“You shouldn’t be here, Kurt. I told you to – you should just leave.”

 

He works quickly, and he won’t look Kurt in the eye. It’s not good enough.

 

“No. You made me believe that you loved me. Why shouldn’t I pay you?”

 

He spits it, hopefully with enough venom that Blaine will feel it, too. He should feel it, feel something, at least, behind this cool, blank façade.

 

Blaine flinches. It’s slight, but Kurt sees it.

 

“Please just go.”

 

He’s finished now, and pushing past Kurt to get to the door. Kurt follows – he’s far from done, and he doesn’t much care who sees him now. It won’t matter if he gets kicked out or roughed up or whatever, because he _needs_ this more than he needs his dignity. He catches up to Blaine, catches him by the elbow.

 

“But you did your job so very, very well. Why can’t I pay you like everyone else does?”

 

“Kurt, there’s no point. _Please_ just go.”

 

His breath has gone shallow and quick, and Kurt can feel his pulse racing at the crook of his elbow. He hardens his heart against this evidence of Blaine’s distress.

 

“No, you have to – why can’t I just _pay_?”

 

Blaine’s eyes widen at something behind them, that fear again, and Kurt almost turns to look, but then Blaine is dragging them, almost running, down the hall. He maneuvers Kurt in front of him and _pushes_ with a hand planted between Kurt’s shoulder blades.

 

“Please, please, please just _go_ ,” he gasps, once they’ve reached the crossroads – exit to the left, stage to the right.

 

“ _No_. Not until you tell me.”

 

Blaine is staring at him, speechless, pleading with his eyes and pushing at his chest, but Kurt came here for one reason and one reason only.

 

“Kurt!”

 

They both turn – it’s Rachel, hurrying down the hall, confused and wary.

 

“Kurt, what are you doing? We’ve got to get on stage! You can talk to Blaine after curtain call.”

 

She grabs Blaine by the arm and pulls him through the stage door, shooting a warning glare over her shoulder. Kurt ignores her, and follows.

 

“Come on, Blaine, just _tell_ me,” he hisses. “Tell me it wasn’t real.”

 

“Please, Kurt. _Please_ just go.” He’s practically sobbing it now, even though his face stays remarkably dry. He’s blinking furiously and gasping for air, and still, it isn’t enough. Kurt has to hear the truth from his lips.

 

“Tell me it wasn’t real, Blaine, come on.” They’re at Blaine’s mark, center stage, behind the door. “Let me pay!” And there’s his cue to enter, in Sue’s booming voice. Blaine tries to push Kurt away, and Rachel tries to pull, but he won’t be moved. He throws them off, more roughly than he intended, and they lose their balance. Rachel stumbles back, and Blaine catches himself on his knees. He looks up, and the tears have started to fall, but Kurt can’t see it as anything but a lie. He grips Blaine’s chin, to make sure his eyes stay on him. “Tell me you don’t love me. You have to tell me, Blaine, _tell me you don’t love me_!”

 

There’s a gasp. A huge gasp, a collective gasp. The stage lights are bright to the point of blinding him as he looks out and realizes he’s on stage, in front of an audience, for the first time in years. The door must have been opened when Blaine missed his cue. He knows he should be mortified, but, honestly, the performance is the last thing on his mind. At least now, Blaine will listen to him.

 

His silence has been answer enough.

 

Sue is downstage, improvising something about a sex change and a disguise, but Kurt is already pulling out his wallet. He finds Sebastian in the audience, halfway to standing, completely incensed.

 

“This man is yours now,” he says. He pulls out the wad of hundreds he withdrew from the bank this afternoon and throws it at Blaine’s feet. “I’ve paid my _whore_.” Sebastian settles back into his seat, mollified, and Blaine takes a deep, shuddering breath. Kurt turns to him, for what he hopes will be the last time. “I owe you nothing. And you are nothing to me. Thank you for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love.” His voice cracks, on this last, but he holds his head high and stalks downstage and toward the center aisle with all of the dignity he can muster. He stops when he reaches Sebastian, and opens his mouth, but there’s nothing more for him to say.

 

Sebastian smirks. Kurt keeps walking.

 

There’s commotion, of course, both on stage and in the audience, but Kurt just focuses on getting from one breath to the next. He can’t worry about what he just did to his friends on their opening night. What he did to Rachel.

 

Suddenly, something rises loud and clear above all the noise. A voice.

 

“The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.”

 

Kurt stops.

 

It’s the first time Santana’s managed to say it without an ounce of cynicism. He takes a breath, steels himself, keeps moving – he’s gotten what he came for, after all. He shrugs out of his costume jacket and leaves it there in the aisle. The audience murmurs, and then…silence. He picks up his pace, eager to just _get out_.

 

He hasn’t walked three steps when he hears it.

 

A sniff, an intake of breath, and another voice, soft and tremulous and building in strength.

 

_“Never knew…I could feel…like this,_

_Like I’ve never seen the sky before…”_

 

Kurt’s heart stops. He stops.

 

_“…Want to vanish inside your kiss._

_Every day, I’m loving you more and more.”_

 

He can scarcely breathe.

 

_“Listen to my heart, can you hear it sing?”_

 

And there it is – hope. He turns around and sees Blaine, _his_ Blaine, with tears in his eyes and on his cheeks, and his heart exposed for the world to see.

 

_“Come back to me and forgive everything!”_

 

Kurt wants to cry at the way his voice chokes off at the end and laugh at the impromptu lyric change, but he’s too caught up thinking, _Ah,_ there _you are. I’ve been looking for you forever_.

 

A gasp of breath, _“Seasons may change, winter to spring,”_ and then, more spoken than sung, _“I love you…‘til the end of time.”_

 

The way Blaine is looking at him, there’s no possible way Kurt could doubt the truth of it, and he won’t, not ever again. Blaine has paused, now, waiting, and Kurt knows it’s his turn.

 

_“Come what may…”_

 

He starts up the aisle, rushing to get to him, and Blaine laughs with the relief of it.

_“Come what may…”_

 

He’s almost there.

 

_“Come what may…”_

 

He tries to leap up onto the stage, sure that his heart will give him wings, but he trips, and stumbles, and scrambles to his feet. He doesn’t care.

 

_“I will love you – ”_

 

And then Blaine is there with him, smiling through his wet lashes, and he’s singing, too.

 

_“I will love you – ”_

 

Their fingers find each other, clasp between them in a complicated knot. Blaine’s heart is still beating rabbit-quick, but his voice has grown steady, and his face is shining with it, this happiness he didn’t know could be his to have. Kurt has barely enough control over his own face to hold the note without collapsing it into his grin.

 

And, together – in call and response, in harmony, their voices together the way they’re supposed to be, somehow more intimate than anything –

 

_“ – until my dying day._

_Come what may, come what may,_

_I will love you until my dying – ”_

 

 _Bang_.

 

They cut off.

 

The room erupts into gasps, murmurs, a few nervous titters. The audience thinks this is part of the show, Kurt realizes. This whole thing, this whole time, they’ve thought it was an act.

 

And, oh my God, that was a _gunshot_.

 

And then – chaos. People are running, ducking, screaming all around them, so loud that Kurt can’t even think, and then Blaine is grabbing his hand and making to run, too.

 

“Up there!” they hear, and it’s Rachel, rushing out from backstage and pointing up at the ceiling. “He’s got a gun! Kurt, he’s trying to _kill_ you!”

 

They stop and turn to look, almost as one. Blaine gasps, clutching tighter at Kurt’s fingers, and Kurt can see why just a second later.

 

It’s that guy, the bodyguard who slammed Kurt into an alley wall just two nights ago. He’s up in the catwalk, hidden by the bright lights unless you know what to look for, at just the perfect angle to take a shot at someone standing downstage center. His hands shoot up in surrender, once he realizes he’s been discovered, and, in his surprise, he fumbles. The gun falls through the air, all eyes glued to its path, and then it clatters to the stage, and…

 

Nothing.

 

The audience is dead silent, and so are the actors.

 

C _lick, click, click_ , the sound of stilettos echoing through the stillness.

 

Santana marches downstage, pushing through the crowd of actors as she goes, probably harder than absolutely necessary. She plucks a scarf off of somebody’s costume as she passes and uses it to pick up the gun. She does something that involves a lot of clicking and some pulling apart, and then she wraps it neatly up in the scarf.

 

“There,” she says. “Evidence. I think you’ll find that the police are already on their way.” She directs this last at Sebastian, with a smirk. “I wouldn’t bother trying to run.”

 

He’s pale, and livid, and glued to his seat. He turns to check the exits, an almost reflexive evaluation of his escape routes. They’re blocked, every one – Sue herself is at the center aisle door with a baseball bat clutched in her hand and wrath in her eyes.

 

“Now. What do you say we close this thing out?”

 

The audience cheers, still oblivious, but Santana wasn’t talking to them. She nods stage right, to the conductor.

 

“Hit it,” she says, and, right on cue, the opening strains of the finale, the _real_ finale, start to play. The actors are dazed and still maybe a little in panic mode, but Santana’s confidence is infectious, and, soon enough, they’ve all joined in.

 

The song is victorious, and romantic, and they sing it tonight with little regard for parts or harmonies. It’s a wall of joyous sound, with choreography out the window and music for the thrill of it. It’s everything, actually, that Kurt imagined when he wrote it.

 

It’s easy to forget the more disturbing events of the past 48 hours when Blaine is in front of him, happy and real and singing to him. There will be a lot to talk about later, Kurt knows, a lot to figure out and quite a few difficult conversations – not to mention a police interview or two – but right now he can let all of that melt away in favor of reveling in the thumps of his healed-up heart as he looks into Blaine’s gorgeous eyes.

 

The last notes sound, the audience starts cheering, and the curtain closes. The actors around them erupt in a bizarre mixture of elation and shock, hugging each other, and laughing, and sobbing by turns. The faint sound of approaching sirens breaks through the cacophony of it all.

 

But it’s all white noise to Kurt. Because his hands are clasped with Blaine’s, trapped between their chests, and he can _feel_ Blaine’s heart, and…that’s not normal. The speed of it, like hummingbird wings, or the weird, woozy way Blaine is blinking, or the shallow gasp of his breath – none of it is normal.

 

_…it turned into a panic attack._

 

“Blaine?” he says urgently. “Blaine, are you okay?”

 

“I don’t – weird, it feels weird.”

 

His voice is faint, and distant. Kurt’s about to open his mouth and tell him in no uncertain terms that they’re going to the hospital, but Blaine doesn’t give him a chance. Because right then, at that moment, Kurt can feel Blaine’s heart _stop_. His eyes roll back and his body goes limp, and they’re so tangled up that Kurt falls with him to the ground.

 

“Blaine?” he calls, shrill in his panic, as he rights himself. There’s no answer, of course. _OhGodohGodohGod_. There’s no pulse, either, or any sign of breath. “Somebody get some help!”

 

Several people scurry into motion, but Kurt’s attention has already been pulled back to Blaine’s too-still body. CPR. That’s a thing, and it’s a thing Kurt knows. He’s been trained since high school, when his dad had his – _oh, God, don’t think about that. Just do. Don’t think, just do_.

 

His hands are shaking, but he pulls himself together, because Blaine’s heart isn’t beating right now, and that’s something that can kill you in a matter of minutes.

 

His world narrows in to compressions and breathing, the crack of cartilage snapping beneath the heel of his hand and the slack warmth of Blaine’s mouth. _Come on, come on, come on, come_ on.

 

Then the paramedics are there, and things happen quickly. Kurt isn’t allowed to ride in the ambulance, and it’s maybe the hardest thing Kurt’s ever had to do, watching Blaine’s dear, dear, lifeless body be carted off by strangers, to somewhere he can’t follow. Rachel guides him outside and hails them a cab. She leans into him and rubs his shoulder the entire ride to the hospital, tears slipping down her cheeks and onto his skin.

 

“He’ll be okay,” he murmurs, to himself more than to her.

 

He has to be.


	9. Until My Dying Day

**Chapter 9: Until My Dying Day**

 

There’s nothing to do now but wait.

 

Kurt came into the emergency room fully prepared to fight a war, because Blaine doesn’t have any family, and Kurt will under no circumstances tolerate being kept in the dark about his condition, but, by some miracle, it turned out not to be necessary. He’s one of Blaine’s emergency contacts, after all, with a signed privacy waiver on file.

 

 _Thank God_. He’s almost grateful for the episode that brought Blaine here a few weeks ago, because he’s sure he would never have thought of it, otherwise.

 

So, he fills out the paperwork as best he can – which isn’t well at all – and settles in.

 

It’s terrible, waiting. He looks up whenever someone comes striding through the door, that awful double door separating him from Blaine, but it’s never for them. He has this anxious energy that wants to escape, but his body feels numb, and moving is beyond him, so it’s trapped buzzing around his chest cavity like bees in a box. He can’t stop thinking about that sound, that prolonged beeeeeeeep that the machines make when your heart won’t beat on its own. He can’t stop seeing images from his dreams, fleeting flashes and one that lingers, fresh from last night – Blaine, still and pale and bleeding from the heart.

 

Rachel sits with him, and holds his hand. They’re quiet for a long time, until Kurt can’t stand it anymore.

 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “About earlier. I pushed you out of your big moment.”

 

She sniffs.

 

“It was for the best. Just don’t do it again.” She tries for a smile and doesn’t quite make it.

 

“I don’t think that will be a problem.”

 

“You missed out on all of the backstage drama.” She looks at him, eyebrows raised as if asking permission to fill him in. He nods, and scoots down in his chair so that he can rest his head on her strong, if petite, shoulder. “It turns out that guy was hired to do more than just, um, protect Blaine’s virtue.”

 

“Yeah, I think we figured that one out.”

 

“No, but just listen – Santana overheard him talking to Sue at intermission, making it clear that he’d been given orders to kill you if he caught you sniffing around.” Kurt snorts, and she hits him lightly on the shoulder. “His words, not mine. She told him she’d taken care of it. I assume that means she told Blaine, and Blaine – ”

 

“He was trying to save me.”

 

His heart clenches, hard. She squeezes his hand.

 

“I assume so, yes. In any case, Santana told me what she’d heard as soon as she realized you’d, um, made an appearance, and we called the police right away.”

 

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

 

“Anytime.”

 

They’re quiet for a while longer, while Kurt tries to reconcile this new information with Blaine’s behavior of the last week.

 

It must have been so horrible for him. Kurt swallows, hard, and blinks down his tears. He just wants to be _with_ him, right now, so he can hold him – or at least hold his hand.

 

“I need to call my dad.”

 

He says it as soon as he thinks it. He stands up before he can talk himself out of it, and Rachel looks up at him sadly.

 

“I’ll come get you if there’s any news.”

 

He nods and walks the short distance out of the hospital on wobbly legs. He sits on the first bench he can find and pulls out his cell phone. He needs…he needs to know his dad is okay, and he needs to _tell_ him. Nothing in his life feels real until his dad knows about it, too, but this is _too_ real, and he needs to share the burden.

 

It’s late by his dad’s standards, but he picks up on the second ring nonetheless.

 

“Hello? Kurt?” His voice is muddled, like he’s been woken up.

 

“Dad.”

 

Just – hearing his voice, saying his name, it’s enough to let something relax that Kurt didn’t consciously realize was tense. The tears start trickling steadily down his cheeks.

 

“Kurt, buddy, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

 

His dad’s voice is getting frantic, and Kurt wants to be strong and reassure him, but he’s not entirely capable of it at the moment.

 

“I – I’m not hurt, I – it’s Blaine, Dad. He had, I don’t know, a heart attack or something, his heart stopped beating, and he’s in the hospital.”

 

“Is he okay?”

 

“I don’t know. They haven’t – I don’t know anything yet. Dad, I’m so _scared_.”

 

He’s crying in earnest now, the ugly kind with the snot and the uncontrollable sobs that turns his face bright red and sticks in his throat so hard it _hurts_ to get it out.

 

“I know, Kurt, I know. Hey, listen to me. Can you do that?”

 

“Uh-huh,” he manages.

 

“Are you still in California?”

 

“No, no, we never left – it’s a really long story, and I promise I’ll tell you, I just – ”

 

“No, hey, listen, it’s fine. Do you have someone there with you?”

 

“Yeah, Rachel. She’s here.”

 

“Okay. I want you to let her take care of you, and I’m going to get on the first flight I can, so I can be there, too.”

 

“No, no, Dad, you don’t have to do that. I’m – I’ll be – it’ll be fine.”

 

“Well then, it’ll be fine and we’ll have some father-son bonding time. And hey, that opening of yours must be right around the corner. I was gonna come out for that anyway.”

 

Another round of sobs, this one motivated by guilt.

 

“It was tonight, Dad. I’m – I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you.”

 

There’s silence for a moment, and Kurt tries to pull himself together.

 

“Well. I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but I bet you had a real good reason. You can tell me all about it when I get there.”

 

Kurt sniffs, hard, and all he can say is, “Okay.”

 

“I’ll try to be there by morning, alright? You just sit tight and stay strong. Blaine’s a lucky guy, to have you in his corner. Remember that, okay?”

 

“Okay. I love you, Dad.”

 

“I love you too, Kurt. And I’ll be there soon.”

 

He’s exhausted, once they say their goodbyes. Emptied out, in the best way.

 

Unfortunately, the relief only lasts moments before he remembers – Blaine could be dying, he could be taking his final breaths right now. And Kurt can’t be with him.

 

But he can get closer. He heaves himself off the bench and wipes his eyes well enough to un-blur his vision, then returns to his seat at Rachel’s side. She doesn’t say a thing about the state of his face, horrendous though it must be.

 

He takes her hand in his, and they wait.

 

Soon enough, their little vigil grows in size. Santana bursts through the outside door, followed quickly by Sam and Brittany. She takes a moment to search the room before making a beeline for them. Once she gets there, she falters, like she doesn’t know what to do now that she’s reached her destination.

 

“Any word?” she asks, almost timid. Sam is clutching at Brittany’s arm, desperate and anxious. Brittany is patting at his hand absently, eyes flitting between Kurt and Santana.

 

“Not yet,” says Kurt. He gestures at the empty chairs around them. “Have a seat. We’re not sure how long the wait will be.”

 

Sam takes the seat beside Rachel, and Santana and Brittany settle in across from them. The silence is slightly awkward, as the three of them come down from the adrenaline high and acclimate themselves to the slow burn of waiting.

 

“What happened after we left?” asks Rachel, quietly.

 

“The cops took our friends Baldy and The Weasel into custody. Don’t know if the charges will stick, but their bail should be set pretty high.”

 

“Not that that’ll be a problem for _Sebastian Smythe_ ,” mutters Sam.

 

“They made us stick around for a while to give our statements – you have that to look forward to, by the way, they’ll be swinging by the hospital before the night is over – and then they told us we could go. We came here right away.”

 

“Sue said she’s putting the show on hold,” adds Brittany. “Until we know if Blaine…”

 

“Right,” says Kurt, quickly. He doesn’t want to hear any of them say it.

 

“Where is Sue?” asks Rachel.

 

“Still talking to the cops, the last I saw,” says Santana, grimly.

 

None of them say what they’re all thinking – they might have just witnessed the end of The Moulin Rouge. With the police sniffing around and Sebastian backed into a corner…it can’t end well.

 

“At least we got to do it once,” sighs Rachel. “Sort of.”

 

“I don’t know. Personally, I think this ending was way better than what we rehearsed.” Santana smirks, but it drops quickly. “Except, you know, that last part.”

 

“Yeah,” says Kurt, quiet. “That part really sucked.”

 

It _still_ sucks.

 

The ER door opens, and Kurt looks, a reflex by now, but this time the doctor is walking their way.

 

“Are you here for Blaine Anderson?” she asks, once she’s reached the group. Her voice is pleasant and professional, and Kurt can’t tell anything from it at all.

 

“Yes. Yes, I’m Kurt Hummel, I’m – I need – can you please  – ?”

 

She smiles – Kurt’s pretty sure it’s meant to be calming, but he’s also pretty sure that nothing could slow the pump of anxiety through his blood at this point. His hands are trembling with it.

 

“Mr. Hummel, my name is Dr. Whitman. Could you please step aside, so that we can discuss Mr. Anderson’s condition?”

 

Kurt shoots to his feet and follows her to somewhere she deems more private, taking heart in the implications of her careful language. Blaine has to be alive to have a condition, after all.

 

“How is he? Is he okay? Is he awake? Can I – ?”

 

“I can see that you’re anxious, Mr. Hummel, but let’s take this step by step, shall we?”

 

She waits. He nods. She continues.

 

“Mr. Anderson’s condition is stable. He suffered from cardiac arrest due to a prolonged period of ventricular fibrillation, which we suspect was related to his recent diagnosis of Wolf-Parkinson-White Syndrome  – ”

 

“Wait – _what_?”

 

“Wolf-Parkinson-White? It’s a birth defect affecting the electrical circuitry of the heart. Mr. Anderson’s file indicates that he was diagnosed after a recent episode, which was initially mislabeled as a panic attack.”

 

Oh. _Oh_.

 

“Is it…serious?”

 

“Not usually. Complications like the one Mr. Anderson experienced tonight are rare, even in high-risk cases such as his. It’s very treatable.”

 

“What about – is he alright?”

 

“Like I said, his condition is currently stable. We won’t know if the episode has caused any lasting problems until he comes out of sedation.”

 

“What problems could there be?”

 

“Well, he underwent a prolonged period of oxygen deprivation, so we could potentially see some signs of damage to his brain – memory loss, impaired speech, that sort of thing. However, the chances are slim that we’ll see any significant changes.”

 

Hearing all of that is just as scary as it was when he was 16 and considering the real possibility that he was about to become an orphan. It turned out fine, then, but there are never any guarantees. Nothing will feel like relief until he can see Blaine, touch him, hold him.

 

“Can I see him?”

 

She nods and smiles her pleasant smile.

 

“Of course.”

 

“Let me just go tell our friends.”

 

She nods her assent, and Kurt rushes over to relay the news.

 

Their relief is palpable. They hug each other and let out the breath they’ve been collectively holding and settle more comfortably into their seats, resigning themselves to a longer wait.

 

Dr. Whitman leads him back behind the doors, to Blaine. The walk feels long, but Kurt isn’t confident that it actually is. Time has been feeling weird and fluid all week, but especially tonight, like it stretches out one moment only to snap back the next.

 

Blaine is by himself – asleep, of course, if it can really be called that when it’s drugged. He’s hooked up to some sort of heart monitoring device (“Just a precaution,” according to Dr. Whitman) and an IV of clear liquid, but that’s it. Less scary than Kurt prepared himself for.

 

He’s too still to be truly asleep. His hair is rumpled almost to tangles, and his stage makeup smeared in streaks. Kurt maneuvers so that he’s as close as he can get to him without disturbing any of his wires and tubes, and he leans in to place a gentle kiss on Blaine’s forehead. It probably reassures him more than it does Blaine, given that Blaine is so deeply under, but he just – he _has_ to feel the warmth of his skin and the steady pulse in his veins. Much more comforting than the quiet _beep, beep, beep_ in the background.

 

He feels that part of him that was holding on so tightly to his worry release its grip, just a little. He won’t be able to let go entirely until Blaine is awake and talking, but it’s a start.

 

Eventually, the others start coming back, one by one, but Kurt doesn’t really notice what they do or say while they’re there. He’s too busy watching the rise and fall of Blaine’s chest and tracing over the slack lines of his face with his eyes. He’s fairly certain they’re doing the same thing, anyway.

 

Rachel is the last to visit, and she tells him, regretfully, that the police have arrived to take their statements. Kurt squeezes Blaine’s hand, kisses his cheek, and reluctantly follows Rachel down the hall to the room they’ve procured.

 

It’s a fairly painless process, aside from the fact that Kurt is itching to get back to Blaine. He tells his side of the story, avoiding any mention of the contract or The Moulin Rouge’s less recent history – he can’t see how it should affect their treatment of his attempted murder, and he certainly doesn’t want to implicate Blaine in anything that could get him in legal trouble. The officers record him and take notes and let him talk with little interruption. They all want to be done with this as quickly as possible.

 

When he’s done, he squeezes Rachel in a hurried hug of gratitude and goes to finish out his vigil on his own.

 

&&&&&

 

Kurt wakes up the next morning to a message from his dad, who’s on his way from the airport. Kurt can’t help but feel guilty at pulling him all the way to New York when the crisis is already at its tail-end, but he decides to push it aside and be selfish. He really just wants him here.

 

He’s groggy and grungy from a fitful night in the cot next to Blaine’s bed, with cricks in his neck and an ache in his lower back, but he’s calmer, at least, than he was the night before.

 

He does the best he can to clean a night of hospital off of his skin, but it, like the smell, seems to stick. It doesn’t help that the only tools he has to work with are warm water and the moisturizing hand soap in the bathroom. He gets a hand towel from the nurse on duty and tries to do the same for Blaine, wiping his face clean of makeup and dried sweat. He’s unable to resist trailing his fingers over Blaine’s cheekbones as he works, and the charmingly off-center slope of his nose.

 

He can already feel his skin drying out. He’s definitely having Rachel bring his skincare products later today.

 

And then, finally, his dad is _there_ , and Kurt almost starts crying again when he gets pulled into the biggest, best bear hug he knows.

 

“How is he?” he mumbles into Kurt’s shoulder.

 

“Stable. He’s sedated, so it’s kind of boring in here.”

 

“Well. When it comes to the hospital, I always say boring beats exciting any day.”

 

Kurt huffs out a laugh and squeezes him extra hard.

 

His dad looks about as worn out as Kurt is himself, but he’s brought breakfast and coffee for the both of them, and they soon start to perk up. The nurse comes in about halfway through the bagels and tells them that Blaine is being taken off sedation and that he should wake up soon.

 

“I guess I’ll finally be meeting this boyfriend of yours, huh?”

 

Kurt grins, for the first time in what feels like forever.

 

He tells him all about Blaine’s condition, and then about Blaine himself, glancing at Blaine every once in while in case hearing so much about himself will inspire him to wake up faster.

 

He saves the less savory portions of the story for another time, when they’re not already at maximum stress levels – his dad has his own heart troubles to worry about, after all. His dad seems to realize he’s leaving things out, but he lets it go, for now.

 

It’s slow, when Blaine starts to show signs of life. A twitch of the hand, or the eyelids. And then he starts to mumble, and make abortive movements as if to turn over in the bed. Kurt watches, all hopes pinned on the moment when he –

 

His eyes open, slowly. He blinks. He focuses. He sees Kurt.

 

Kurt breathes in, sharp and almost painful in his relief.

 

“Kurt?”

 

And the exhale, bringing with it every last bit of lingering worry. It’s almost a laugh.

 

“Hi. Welcome back.”

 

He can’t help it, he lifts Blaine’s hand to his lips and kisses it, over and over. Blaine beams his approval. He frees his hand, gently, and strokes it down Kurt’s face.

 

“I like you,” he says.

 

His eyes are woozy, and bright with affection. Kurt laughs fondly.

 

“I like you, too.”

 

“Stay?”

 

“Always. I’m never saying goodbye to you.”

 

Blaine nods, and his eyes drift closed. Within seconds, his breathing is deep with sleep.

 

His dad clears his throat.

 

“He seems great, kid.”

 

“You’ll love him, Dad, I swear.”

 

His dad chuckles.

 

“I’m sure I will. And, if I don’t, I’m sure you’ll do it enough for both of us.”

 

Kurt can feel himself blush, a little. It’s strange and strangely nice that his feelings are so clearly visible. He kind of likes that his dad can see the love all over him.

 

His dad ends up staying to keep him company until Blaine shows signs of waking up for real, at which point he decides it’s time for him to take his leave.

 

“I’ll give you two some alone time, check into my hotel. Maybe take a nap. We’ll have dinner together, though, the three of us. I have a feeling I should get to know this guy.”

 

Kurt grins and agrees, and focuses all of his attention back on Blaine.

 

“What happened?” is the first thing Blaine says, once he’s back in the land of the coherent.

 

Kurt explains as best he can and lets the nurses do the rest, when they come in to take his vitals. After they leave, he scoots his chair in closer to the bed so that he can hold Blaine’s hand more comfortably in his, and so that he can reach out and touch if he needs to.

 

“I was so worried,” he says. It comes out almost on a whisper.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“You should be.” Blaine blinks in surprise. “Not for – I mean, you should have – why didn’t you tell me? About your diagnosis, I mean.”

 

Blaine glances away, like he can’t bear to meet Kurt’s eyes. After a moment, he looks back, determined to weather the storm.

 

“The doctor told me my best treatment option was surgery. I couldn’t – there was no way I could have taken the time away from rehearsal to do something like that. I figured, the chances were so slim that anything serious would go wrong – ”

 

“But it did, Blaine. Your heart _stopped_. I don’t know if you remember that, but I do, and I’m not going to be forgetting it any time soon. You have no idea how _scary_ that was.”

 

“I’m sorry you had to go through that.” He says it so kindly, but Kurt needs more than that.

 

“Okay, but don’t just be sorry, Blaine. I need you to – _please_ will you take this seriously? This is your heart, and you – you kind of need it, you know?”

 

Blaine squeezes his hand.

 

“I will. I promise. Don’t worry, I kind of want to make sure my dying day is as far in the future as possible.”

 

Kurt smiles.

 

“Good.”

 

He leans over to kiss Blaine, gently, careful not to jostle anything. He wants to climb up into the bed, but he’s pretty sure the nurses wouldn’t take too kindly to that, and he wants to stay on good terms with them. He settles for clasping Blaine’s hand in both of his and holding it tightly to his chest. They look at each other, just needing this moment to bask in the glow of _you’re here, you’re really here_.

 

Blaine’s expression goes suddenly worried.

 

“Kurt, what happened after I passed out? Was Sebastian – ?”

 

“Arrested. That guy, too, the asshole with the gun – ”

 

“Oliver.”

 

“Right, him. The police took them into custody and took statements from all of us.”

 

Blaine nods, but he still looks perturbed.

 

“Do you think Sue will get in trouble over all of this?”

 

“I don’t know. It depends on how much Sebastian says to the police, I guess.”

 

“That’s what I was afraid you’d say.”

 

“Let’s not think about that right now. Let’s just concentrate on getting you better, alright? That’s the most important thing right now.”

 

Blaine smiles at him sweetly.

 

“I love you, you know that?”

 

Kurt’s own smile could split his face in two, it’s so wide. A lightning bolt zing of happiness speeds up from his toes and bursts into his heart. He frees one hand and reaches up to cradle Blaine’s jaw and run a thumb over his cheek.

 

“I know.”

 

He’s just about to speak up again, to tell Blaine how very much the feeling is returned, when there’s a knock at the door. Kurt looks up, and then he’s shooting out of his seat and almost dragging Blaine out, too, with the force of it.

 

Kurt is certain that Sebastian Smythe has never been less welcome in a room than he is in this one, right now.

 

“Don’t even think about stepping foot into this room,” Kurt snarls. He’s suddenly thrumming with rage at his audacity, showing up to Blaine’s hospital room after everything he’s done. If he has the gall to even mention the word “contract,” Kurt won’t be held responsible for his actions.

 

“No,” says Blaine. Kurt blinks down at him, certain he’s heard wrong. Blaine is pleading with his eyes for understanding. “Let him stay. I want to hear what he has to say.”

 

Kurt clenches his jaw. He nods, stiff and quick, and settles back in his seat.

 

Sebastian clears his throat and steps into the room. He doesn’t move to sit down.

 

“Thank you. I really just…wanted to make sure you were okay.”

 

It’s now that Kurt notices how…wan he looks. Crumpled, pale, tired, like he came here straight from the police station. He probably did. He’s looking at Blaine like he’s seeing a ghost, but, honestly, Sebastian is the one that looks closer to the grave at the moment.

 

“Yes,” says Blaine, shortly. “We both are.”

 

“I was worried.”

 

“I’m sure,” scoffs Kurt. Worried about damage to his property, maybe.

 

“I talked to Sue. I told her I wanted to void the contract.”

 

Blaine frowns, wary.

 

“And the funding?”

 

“A donation, on my part.”

 

“Why would you do that? You know that’s – it’s not going to change the fact that you hired someone to kill my boyfriend.”

 

“We agreed it would be best not to make things…messier than they have to be.”

 

Blaine’s brow is still furrowed, and he’s looking at Sebastian like he’s searching, trying to piece something together.

 

“What about Ohio?”

 

Kurt’s heart lurches, and he clenches his hand around Blaine’s. Now isn’t the time to ask, but he’s sure as hell going to.

 

“I gave you my word. I wouldn’t go back on that even if I wanted to.”

 

“I don’t get it, Sebastian. What’s in this for you?”

 

Sebastian’s eyes flash, and he opens his mouth for what’s sure to be a comment that ignites Kurt’s already-strong desire to jump across the bed and rip out his guts, but he stops. He sighs, heavily, and tries again.

 

“When I heard what – when Sue told me last night that you’d collapsed behind the curtain and nearly _died_ , I – I couldn’t sleep, I just lay awake in that jail cell and – and I couldn’t stop thinking… I care about you, Blaine.” He glances quickly at Kurt, mouth drawn in a thin line. He blinks, and steels himself, and looks at Blaine like he’s stabbing himself in the heart and bleeding it out for him. “I _love_ you, actually. And I was hurting you.”

 

“You don’t love me, Sebastian,” he says, gently. “You don’t _know_ me.”

 

Sebastian glances at Kurt again, eyes darting away as soon as they land.

 

“I know. But I – I think I would have felt the same. Even if you weren’t…putting on an act, with me.”

 

“Sebastian – ”

 

“If you would just give me a chance – ”

 

“Wait, stop. No. Sebastian, I don’t…blame you, entirely, for what happened between us. I was using you just as much as you were using me – maybe more. But I will _never_ be in love with you. And that has nothing to do with Kurt, or anyone else. It has to do with you and me. So, thank you, for letting me out of the contract. But if you ever come near me or anyone that I love, ever again, I will make sure that you regret it.”

 

There’s stone-cold steel in his eyes, and his voice, and the set of his features. Kurt couldn’t be prouder if he tried.

 

Sebastian looks away. He nods, and swallows, and nods again.

 

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he says, to Blaine’s feet.

 

He turns and leaves without another word. Blaine collapses back into his pillows.

 

“God, I love you,” sighs Kurt.

 

Blaine laughs. It’s tinged a little bitter.

 

“Thank you for letting him stay. I needed that.”

 

“It’s your hospital room. And, clearly, you don’t need my protection.”

 

Blaine smiles, but it fades quickly.

 

“There are some things I should tell you.”

 

“Rachel told me about – Oliver, was it?” Blaine confirms with a nod. “She said that Sebastian gave him orders to kill me if I came near you. And that that’s why you…did what you did. I just don’t get why you didn’t _tell_ me, Blaine. I mean, it was my life at stake – shouldn’t I have gotten some say in the decision?”

 

Blaine looks away, presses his lips together.

 

“It wasn’t just your life.”

 

“What do you mean?” A part of him thinks he might already know – _Ohio_ – but it’s horrible, and he won’t even think it unless it’s confirmed.

 

“He told Sue he had…connections, in Ohio. He said he’d go after your family, Kurt. Your _dad_. I couldn’t – I knew what you’d choose, if it was just you, I knew you’d want to fight for us no matter what. But I couldn’t make you choose between me and your dad, I couldn’t. I knew you’d hate yourself either way. So I just…made a deal and took us both out of the equation.”

 

“Blaine…”

 

He looks up and meets Kurt’s eyes, regretful, but so, so sure.

 

“I know now that I made the wrong decision. I took away your choice, and I hurt you, and I – I chose fear when I should have chosen you.”

 

“You thought you were. You were trying to protect me.”

 

“No, I was trying to protect myself.”

 

“Same thing, isn’t it?”

 

Blaine smiles.

 

“I suppose so, yes.”

 

“To be honest, I don’t know what I would have done in your shoes.”

 

“Yes, you do. You would have trusted in us enough to fight, the same as I should have done.”

 

“You did, in the end.”

 

Blaine grabs his hand and squeezes tight.

 

“I hated watching you walk away from me. It felt so _wrong_. And then I heard Santana, and that sappy line she’s always hated, and I finally understood what you’ve been saying all along – nothing can touch us, if we don’t let it. I knew what I had to do, after that.”

 

Kurt has to, he leans in and kisses Blaine, deeply, trying to communicate just how much he’s feeling in that moment. It’s not enough, it could never be enough.

 

“Never again?” he murmurs, hovering above Blaine, close enough that his eyes are nothing but splotches of color.

 

“’Til my dying day.”

 

They smile, peaceful at last, in spite of the wires and the tubing and the painful bent posture of Kurt’s back. They stay like that, gazing at each other, until Kurt’s upper body collapses onto the pillow next to Blaine, and, nose-to-nose, they drift to sleep.


	10. Epilogue: Truth, Beauty, Freedom, and Love

**Epilogue: Truth, Beauty, Freedom, and Love**

 

The unmistakable sound of televised baseball is filtering in from the living room, and Kurt would normally find it annoying, but right now he has more important matters on his mind. In fact, he’s kind of freaking out. His heart is pumping in double time, his hands are unsteady, and it’s like his hair is deflating literally every time he turns his back to the mirror. He sighs, loudly, and he reaches for the extra-strong-hold spray he saves for emergencies. This much, at least, he can control.

 

“Nervous?”

 

He doesn’t even have it in him to roll his eyes.

 

“Understatement.”

 

Blaine smiles and moves to wrap his arms around Kurt’s waist from behind. He hooks his chin over Kurt’s shoulder and nuzzles playfully into his neck.

 

“You’d better not forget me in your acceptance speech.”

 

Kurt grasps Blaine’s hands where they’re clasped against his stomach. He finds Blaine’s eyes in the mirror.

 

“Back at you.”

 

“I would never.”

 

Kurt smiles, his affection bursting out at the seams. He cranes his neck for a quick, sweet kiss before letting go and patting at Blaine’s hands.

 

“Now unhand me so I can fix my hair.”

 

Blaine complies, eyeing him skeptically.

 

“I don’t know, Kurt – if your hair goes any higher, it will literally be vertical. Don’t you think it might be time to put the hairspray down?”

 

“Don’t even talk to me about hair product, Blaine Anderson. Your natural texture hasn’t seen the light of day since before I met you. How would you feel if I told you to lighten up on the gel?”

 

Blaine frowns, and runs a self-conscious hand over his hair.

 

“You always tell me it makes me look debonair.”

 

“I’m just saying.”

 

“Okay, fine, point taken. But, for the record, you look amazing. The camera will love you no matter how well your hair defies gravity.”

 

His _so will I_ goes unspoken, but Kurt hears it anyway, in the timbre of his voice. He turns away from his reflection to look at Blaine, really look at him, for the first time this evening. He’s dressed and ready, handsome and dashing and every bit the leading man. He’d fit in seamlessly on any red carpet in town. Or, no, actually, more than just fit in – Blaine has never been built to blend, and this is no different. He’ll _own_ that red carpet.

 

Kurt leans in to brush his fingers gently through Blaine’s carefully-styled quiff, loosening up the gel just enough to make it look less effortful.

 

“I can’t let you put me completely to shame,” he flirts.

 

Blaine grins, and pulls Kurt in for a smacking kiss. He opens his mouth to say something that was probably going to be flirty or sappy or wicked, but he’s interrupted by a pointed throat-clearing from the doorway.

 

“I was wondering what was taking you boys so long. I guess I should have known.”

 

It’s Kurt’s dad, leaning casually against the door frame in his formal wear. It’s his wedding suit, paired with a black-on-black patterned tie that Blaine picked and Kurt approved. He’s smirking, and it isn’t cute.

 

“How are the Reds doing?” asks Blaine, and it’s much more pleasant than the scathing reply that was sitting on Kurt’s tongue.

 

“Game’s over. They pulled it out just in time, 3-2.”

 

“That’s great!”

 

Blaine’s smile is sunny, but Kurt can tell he’s just being polite. He’s confessed to Kurt that he finds baseball a tad boring.

 

“So, are we planning to get there before this thing starts, or what?”

 

“Just a few more minutes, Dad.”

 

“We’re going to have to scrape Carole off the floor if we leave her with Hiram and Leroy for too much longer. You know how they are about their chardonnay.”

 

“I’m just putting the finishing touches on my hair.”

 

His dad shakes his head with a long-suffering sigh.

 

“Maybe we should go find something on ESPN, huh Blaine? Might be a while yet.”

 

Blaine shrugs at Kurt apologetically and follows his dad out to the living room. It’s just as well – this will be faster without the two of them there to distract him.

 

The TV is on low, and Kurt can easily hear their voices above the noise. He picks up his comb and his hairspray, his instruments of war, and he listens.

 

“So, Blaine – how are you holding up?”

 

“I’m okay. A little nervous.”

 

“I guess that’s natural. Just remember, this is only the first of many. It won’t make or break your career.”

 

“I know, it’s not that. It’s more about the performance, to be honest.”

 

“What? You knock that thing out of the park eight times a week in a bona fide Broadway theater. This can’t be that different.”

 

“The show is televised, nationally. It’s a little…daunting.”

 

His dad’s voice changes, goes serious. Kurt can picture him leaning forward in his seat and resting his elbows on his knees.

 

“You worried about Sebastian?”

 

“Oh, no, nothing like that. Last Sue heard, he was in Paris, doing whatever it is he does when he’s not playing producer. He’s out of the picture.”

 

There’s silence for a while. Kurt assumes they’re concentrating on whatever game they’ve settled on. He re-focuses on perfecting the swoop of his hair, absorbing himself so thoroughly in the task that his dad’s voice nearly startles him into combing it flat.

 

“Maybe it isn’t my place, but I got to tell you, kid – I’m proud of you no matter what happens on that stage tonight.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Blaine’s voice is clogged up, and Kurt wants to run out there and pull him close and soothe a hand down his back. He would, too, if Blaine were in any less capable hands.

 

Blaine hesitates, and then, heartbreakingly soft: “What if – what if they see?”

 

“Then they see. And they might start to get some sort of inkling of what they gave up when they walked out of your life, because it takes a hell of a man to make something like this out of nothing.”

 

Blaine breathes in, sharply, like he does when he’s trying not to cry. He pauses. Kurt knows how hard this is for him – he closes his eyes and just hopes with all his heart that Blaine knows how much of his support he has.

 

“I’m not actually sure if I’m more worried that they’ll contact me or that they won’t care enough to try.”

 

“It’s your choice, either way. In the meantime, you’ve got people in your corner who’ll be there no matter what you choose.”

 

There’s a sniff, and a rustle of fabric, and the thumping sound of his dad’s patented bear hug. Kurt swallows down his tears. He looks in the mirror, decides it’s good enough, and rushes out to the living room to be with his family.

 

They’re just pulling away from each other, blinking away their tears, when Kurt enters. He pauses, and watches, and loves the open affection between them. His dad gives Blaine something that Kurt never could, something he’s needed maybe his entire life, and he’s just so happy that Blaine has it, now.

 

He clears his throat and waits for them to notice him there.

 

“I believe we have a red carpet to dominate?”

 

Blaine smiles and wipes at his eyes. He gets up, and he offers Kurt his arm. Kurt takes it with a tender kiss to the cheek that makes Blaine’s smile widen.

 

“Let’s go show them how it’s done,” he says, with a wink that’s meant only for Kurt.

 

And Kurt’s nerves calm, all of a sudden, because it doesn’t matter what happens tonight. At the end of it, he’ll still have Blaine cuddled up close and warm and breathing against his skin in the quiet dark. Nothing that happens between now and then could change that, win or lose.

 

Come what may.

 

He straightens his spine and smiles.

 

Bring it on, Tony awards. Get ready to eat your heart out.


End file.
